


Three Seasons of Falling

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cocaine, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Slash, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back in London, back in John's life. John just wants to be angry at him, hate him for what Sherlock put him through at Bart's. But it's quickly apparent that, however horrible the last nine months have been for John, it's been twice as bad for Sherlock. And Sherlock is still dead to the world.</p><p>John's faced with a Sherlock he's never seen: vulnerable, utterly and completely. And a confession John doesn't know what to do with. One thing is certain, though: as they come to face the last threat of Moriarty's web, John and Sherlock's relationship will be different from here on out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
> 16th March  
> Untitled  
> I’ve decided to return to the service.

“Cold for March, innit?” the cabbie said.

“Yeah,” John replied, staring through his reflection in the window.

“Right, here we are: two-two-one Baker Street.”

John watched the taxi pull back into traffic, just to prolong things. But the traffic was slow, and he couldn’t stare forever. He turned slowly, lingering on Speedy’s dark interior, before he finally came face to face with the brass knocker. He clenched and unclenched his hand at his side; it was moments like this he still wished he carried a cane, if only to have something to hold onto. He knocked, the key in his pocket going untouched.

Mrs. Hudson pressed her hand to her chest, “Dr. Watson! I didn’t expect to see you here. Come in, come in. Haven’t you still got your key?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve been meaning to return that to you.”

“Nonsense. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“I’m actually only staying for a moment. I’ve—I’ve come to say goodbye, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Goodbye? What do you mean?”

“I’ve reenlisted. I’m going back.”

His old landlady trembled for a moment. Then it passed. “Well the least you can do is stay for a cup of tea. Manners, Dr. Watson, manners.”

John smiled. “Of course, I’m sorry.” He followed her through to the kitchen and sat at the little table. He hated it, hated being there. Everywhere he looked, all he saw were his shadows, his ghosts. More than once, as he passed by 221, always too cowardly to step inside, he thought he could hear that damned violin.

“Well I don’t suppose there’s any changing your mind,” Mrs. Hudson was saying. “You’re as stubborn as—well, as ever. Here we are.” She set down the tea and took the seat across from him. John could almost see him in the shadows, standing at Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. Valiant Mrs. Hudson.

“Is, um, Mycroft still…”

“Yes, check comes every month. Never see him of course. Oh, I don’t mind. I don’t think I could bare anyone else moving in. Saves me the trouble of cleaning out all his things. Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound—”

John shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I did ask.”

“Did you… Did you want to go up? Say goodbye to the old place?”

“No, no. I don’t think,” John took a deep breath. “I don’t think I could.” He flexed his fingers and stood up. Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll write to you.” He kissed her cheek and marched out before she could call him back. In the back of his head, he heard the violin.

 

There was still a week before John had to leave London. He had a week to sit on his hands. He’d already written to Harry, e-mailed Lestrade, and now he’d said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson—and Baker Street. Who else was there?

The return trip to his flat felt longer. Too long. “Are you lost?”

His phone beeped. _Don’t reenlist._

John looked at his phone, and then at the back of the cabbie’s head, which was covered almost entirely by his hat. None of these streets were anywhere between Baker Street and his flat.

“You one of Mycroft’s then? What does he care, hm? What’s this for?” Silence, though John didn’t really expect anything else. “Well all right, what abandoned warehouse am I meeting him in this time?” Twenty minutes later the taxi stopped back in front of 221. John got out and went around to the driver’s side. “Why am I back here?” He held up his phone, the text on the screen glowing against the side of the cabbie’s face. “What the hell is this… about?”

The hat came off.

John stumbled back. A horn blasted and his instincts pulled him back onto the sidewalk. He was left staring through the closed passenger seat window of the taxi. The cabbie had gotten out, though, and was standing in front of the curb. Not a cabbie.

John’s fist hit Sherlock’s cheek before he knew what he was doing. “You bastard,” he shouted, again and again. “You were dead!”

“I think,” Sherlock said as he picked himself up, “we should go inside.”

John slammed the front door on Sherlock’s face. “Mrs. Hudson!”

“Don’t shout, Dr. Watson.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I think you should—”

“I wanted to tell you.”

“—brace yourself. Wait, what?” Back in the hall Sherlock had let himself in. John looked between the two. “You knew?”

“He made me promise not to tell you. I’m so sorry.” She looked around John. “Sherlock, what’s happened to your face?”

“Never mind, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll be upstairs.”

 

They were in their old spots, Dr. John Watson in his chair and Sherlock Holmes staring down at Baker Street. It turned out, Mycroft had paid Mrs. Hudson to keep the place as it was, even to keep it in good condition, so there wasn’t even a layer of dust to say nine months had passed since the two colleagues were last in 221b together.

Sherlock had the fingertips of one hand on the windowsill. The jacket he’d been wearing as cabbie was discarded on the table chair. “Have a seat, John,” was what he said. Sherlock’s left cheek was blossoming into a colorful bruise. John was hard put not to make the right side match. Instead, he sat.

“So,” John said, his jaw taught. “You’re alive.”

“Yes, I thought that much was obvious. Really, John, I expected you would be pleased at this discovery, not violent.” His eyes flickered to watch John in the dark window’s reflection. John’s fist was pressing into the chair’s arm.

“You were dead. We buried you.”

“You buried someone, John, a body Molly was kind enough to volunteer as a stand-in.”

John’s jaw wrenched tighter. “Molly knew?”

“She was quite instrumental in the whole charade.”

“Molly knew, and you couldn’t be bothered to tell me?”

“I needed you to believe I was dead. It was the only way to convince—”

“But you were dead, Sherlock. For God’s sake, I checked your pulse.”

“Ah, but you see, it’s quite easy to hide one’s pulse for a short period of time. The really difficult part—well, I say difficult—John, where are you going?”

John had stood up and was putting on his coat. “Home, Sherlock.”

“Home?”

“Yes, home. I don’t live here anymore. I haven’t since you—didn’t die.”

“Well of course, I know that.”

“Of course you do. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“But I assumed you would move back in after—”

“After what, Sherlock? After you rose from the dead? After letting me believe for nine bloody months you were dead? You can’t just strut back into the world like that. It doesn’t work that way. I’m moving on with my life, and you decide now’s the perfect time to pop back in. No, Sherlock, goodnight.”

“John.”

John hesitated, but he kept his back to the room.

“Don’t reenlist.”

The slam of the door shook all of Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  (unposted)  
>  The Pin in the Needle-Stack  
>  Four nights after finding Sherlock was in fact alive, Molly showed up at my flat.

John doubted he would ever get rid of some habits; three years out of the war and one knock was all he needed to be awake and alert. Even if it hadn’t, the knocking continued up until he opened the door. Molly Hooper stood with her fist curled against midair. She looked at him, then her hand, and put it down.

“Hullo, John.”

“Molly. What time is it?”

“Um,” she checked her mobile, which was clasped so tight in her other hand her knuckles were white. “Almost half past.”

“Half past what?”

“Three?”

John drew his hands down his face. “Jesus, Molly.”

“I know you’re probably not very happy with me, John—”

“I don’t blame you, but do we have to do this now?”

“It’s Sherlock.”

“Yes, I know he’s alive.”

“No, I mean, well yes, he told me he let you know.”

John looked at her hand again, the one gripping the phone. He was surprised she hadn’t crushed it. “What is it? What’s he done now?” Her breaths quickened and became shallow. John forced his expression to relax and drew Molly in by the shoulder. They sat down at the table that was smaller than the one at 221b. “Take your time, Molly.”

“I’m all right,” she said and let out a quick breath. John got back up and went to fill a glass of water. “Really. You should be worried about Sherlock.”

“What for? He’s done just fine for the last nine months.”

“But he hasn’t.”

John put the glass in front of Molly and very slowly resumed his seat. “What do you mean?”

“You know how, before he—well before you met him—you know the nicotine patches?” He nodded. “And the cigarettes. You know he did other things, right?”

“But he’s been clean for years.”

“Except he hasn’t had any cases. Well, obviously. He’s done things here and there, without Lestrade or anyone else knowing, but no real cases. And he hasn’t had anything to do.”

“Oh god.”

Molly took a tentative sip of water.

“What’s he got himself into?”

“I don’t like to ask. I’m sorry, John, but I just don’t want to know. But I when I found out, I made him promise.”

“Promise what?”

“To call me, or send me a text, or something. Every three days. Just to know he’s alive, you know?”

“And you haven’t heard from him in three days?”

Molly shook her head. “Mrs. Hudson said he went out after the night you went to Baker Street.”

John disappeared into the bedroom. He threw on yesterday’s clothes and found Molly waiting by the door.

As John laced up his shoes, Molly said, “Do you… Do you think Mycroft might know anything?”

“The two weren’t exactly friendly last time I knew.” He grabbed his jacket and they left the flat. “If it were anyone but the Holmes brothers, I’d say a faked suicide might have patched things up.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“I’ve got a few ideas.” John stood at the curb and strained to spot a taxi.

 

The sky started to gray and they’d still yet to find any sign of Sherlock. None of the parts of Sherlock’s homeless network John was familiar with had any hint of where the man himself might be.

“Did you text him?”

John looked at Molly. “I assumed you had.”

“I did, a lot. But you should text him.”

“If he’s not answering his texts—”

“You can try.” Molly looked intently at John, surprisingly stable despite the anxiety and sleep deprivation.

John pulled out his phone and, despite his resolve from four days ago, texted Sherlock. _Where are you?_

The reply came within minutes. It was an alley in one of the countless corners of the city they had yet to look in. John and Molly carried him into the taxi and John directed the cabbie to Baker Street.

“Molly, John. Lovely to see you.”

“Shut up,” John said.

In the closed space, John began noticing the backstreet stench coming off Sherlock. At Baker Street, he gave the cabby and extra twenty quid to make sure none of this went reported. The cabbie tipped his hat and drove off.

“Find his key, Molly. I’ll hold him up.”

John went backwards up the stairs with Sherlock’s arms and Molly carried up the feet. They got him onto his bed and Molly let out a huge sigh. John, though, bent over Sherlock and started checking his vitals.

“What did you take?”

Sherlock groaned.

“Molly, could you get the small bin from the bathroom please? Dump whatever’s in it in the kitchen trash.”

“Sure, but what for?”

“I expect he’ll be throwing up eventually. We can only hope he manages to make it in the bin and not the bed.”

“Right.” Molly hurried off.

John shut the door behind her. “You’re a child, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Is that you, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock slurred.

“Yes, and this doctor needs to know exactly what rubbish you put in your system.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Bollocks. You may be high as a bloody kite, but you’re still Sherlock Holmes. Now what have you taken in the last four days?”

Sherlock listed them in order, repeating several, but mostly cocaine. Then he rolled over and mumbled, “Goodnight, John.”

Molly came back with the bin and John set it by the bed. “Can you watch him? Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit, that sort of thing. I need to run to the shop; I’m sure there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“I can go to the shop.” She nodded to Sherlock’s back. “You should stay with him. You’re the doctor after all. What do you need?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” They went out to the living room and John found a scrap of paper to jot down the list. Molly started for the door, but turned halfway. “You’ll stay, until he’s okay?”

John’s brow furrowed. “Of course. I’m angry with him, Molly. It doesn’t mean I’m going to let him—yes, I’ll stay.”

She smiled a little and left. John turned back towards the bedroom just in time to catch sight of Sherlock puking into the bin.

 

John slept on the couch for the next two days. Mrs. Hudson assured him he could use his old room, but he politely refused. It was only temporary. John went out when Molly or Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on Sherlock for an hour or two. He still showered and changed clothes at his flat, but he brought his laptop and a few books back to Baker Street. He let Mrs. Hudson fawn over Sherlock, making sure he stayed hydrated. John only went into Sherlock’s room to check his vitals and clean out the bin, which didn’t need much doing after the first morning, and help Sherlock stumble half conscious to the toilet.

Sometime during his second night sleeping back in 221b, John woke. He sat up on the couch and made out Sherlock’s silhouette leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom.

“Feeling better?” John yawned.

“What are you doing here?”

“Right, like you don’t know.”

There was a pause. John couldn’t make out more than the angles of Sherlock’s face, and then only the half the streetlamp light fell on. If there was an expression on Sherlock’s face, he couldn’t see it.

“I think I’ll go back to bed,” Sherlock said at last. He turned around, his movements sluggish.

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Why now?”

“Sorry?”

John stood. “Why did you decide now was a good time to tell me you were alive?”

Sherlock yawned, although even in the dark John was sure it was faked. “Really, John? Do you think now is the best time?”

“Sorry, am I inconveniencing you? Yes, Sherlock. Now.” John crossed his arms.

Sherlock stood silent, his back to John. He raised his head and said, just loud enough for John to hear, “Because you were going to go back to Afghanistan.”

“I still am.”

“Don’t, John.”

John stiffened. “What does it matter to you? You’re still dead to the world. I’m not moving back into a dead man’s flat.”

“I’m asking you, John. Don’t reenlist. Don’t go back to the war.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock raised a hand to his head. John faltered. Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating.

“I—”

“Never mind.” Suddenly John didn’t want to hear why. He didn’t want to take advantage of Sherlock in this state. Even Sherlock was bound to show real suffering if enough drugs were passing out of his system.

“You asked—”

“We can talk when you’re sober. Good night, Sherlock.”

There was half a beat before Sherlock said goodnight and closed the bedroom door halfway. John repositioned himself on the couch and found his way back to sleep.

 

John was reading _The Times_ when Sherlock burst from his bedroom. He was bug-eyed and trembling. “What’s wrong?” John put down the paper.

Sherlock ignored him and started opening and close the drawers of the desk. John got up and grabbed Sherlock’s arm.

“No you don’t. Back to bed.”

“I need it, John.”

“No, you don’t.” John pulled the struggling man back to the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed.

“You really are strong for someone so short.”

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Army doctor.”

“Ex army doctor.”

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.” He took the doorknob and started to close the door.

“You and Mrs. Hudson cleaned me out again, didn’t you?”

John glanced back. Sherlock looked horrible, gaunter than he used to. Gaunter than a few days should have made him. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.” He clicked the door shut and leaned against it.

When John looked up, Molly was standing in the front doorway. “Is he any better?”

“So long as he doesn’t climb out the window, he will be.”

She let out a breath. “Good. I’ve brought lunch.” She held up a paper sack from Speedy’s.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.”

They sat at the kitchen table, uncharacteristically empty of specimens and experiments. It was one thing completely changed from when John lived there.

“Molly,” John said halfway through lunch. She looked up at him. “Does Mycroft know? Not that he’s alive, I suppose he knows that. About the drugs, though.”

Molly hesitated, which was answer enough, but John let her take a moment to speak. She chewed and swallowed slowly and took a long drink of water. “A bit. He hasn’t actually been around much. I suppose to keep people from suspecting anything. But I don’t think he’s quite aware how bad off Sherlock’s been.”

“How bad off has he been?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “You know Sherlock. He needed to smoke if he didn’t have a case every couple of days.”

“More like every day.”

Molly smiled, somewhere between amused and saddened. “He hasn’t had much to occupy him in the last nine months, John. For Sherlock, it hasn’t been the biggest challenge keeping himself hidden.”

“What’s he waiting for? Why won’t he start living again?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think he and Mycroft are the only ones who do. I suppose it has something to do with Jim.”

John tensed. “Moriarty’s dead. There’s no faking that one.”

“Oh, I know. You know, it’s funny. I couldn’t do the autopsy on him. Not because I still liked him,” Molly rushed to add. “Of course not, not after what he did to Sherlock. I’ve looked at plenty of dead bodies, even people I knew. But I couldn’t bare the sight of his.”

They sat in the quiet flat, neither eating. Molly brushed her hands over her plate. “I better be going. Some of us are still living and have jobs, right? Bye, John.”

“Thanks,” John called after her.

“For what?”

“For… For lunch. Thanks for lunch, Molly Hooper.”

She smiled and vanished down the stairs. John listened to the door open and close. He cleaned up the table and checked on Sherlock. The bastard was sound asleep.

 

The day before John shipped out, he spent the day in his own flat putting the last of his few things in boxes that would go into storage or off to Harry’s. All that was left were his uniform for tomorrow and the sheets on his bed. Even his laptop was in the one bag he would be taking with him.

There was a thud out in the staircase, followed by shouting and heavy footsteps. John’s hand went to the handgun laid on his desk. It was in his grip when the door burst open, but he released it once he saw Sherlock bent over, panting. He looked like he would keel over any minute.

“Christ, Sherlock. What are you doing here? Where’s Molly?”

“Asleep,” he said, chest heaving.

“You should be in bed. Sit down.” John pulled out the desk chair, but Sherlock waved it away.

“Don’t. Go.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock seethed. Despite the lack of color in his face, Sherlock’s eyes were all but glowing.

“And why not?”

Sherlock’s legs gave way and John lunged to catch him before he smacked his head on something. He dragged Sherlock into the chair.

“Why shouldn’t I go?” John stared unwavering at him, and Sherlock met his gaze.

“You can’t.”

“I promise you, I’m very capable of it. Look, you’re in the first stages of withdrawal. We’ve been through this before. Even you aren’t perfectly clear-headed when you’re like this.” He took Sherlock’s arm to help him up, but Sherlock gripped the sleeve of John’s jumper.

“Don’t.”

“Give me a reason.”

“If you go,” Sherlock said haltingly. “I can’t—I can’t—”

John’s anger started to subside. It was quickly being replaced by a small thread of panic; the last time Sherlock was like this, he was standing on the edge of a building. But that wasn’t real. That wasn’t real. Then what was this? “What, Sherlock? What can’t you do if I go?”

“Protect you.” Sherlock started coughing and hunched over. John let go of his arm.

“That’s your excuse, is it? That’s a weak excuse, Sherlock.” John tried to recapture the annoyance he had been feeling all week, but something kept it out of reach. “Protect me? From what? Moriarty’s dead, Sherlock. There’s nothing else out there. I’m a soldier, remember? I know what a war does.”

“Not him,” Sherlock said. He didn’t look up. His voice was raw.

“Who? You said no one could match Moriarty, except you. So unless you plan on—”

“John, shut up.”

John rubbed his brow and groaned. “That’s it. I’m calling you a cab, putting you in it, and sending you back to Baker Street. And then I’m going to tell Molly where to find your handcuffs and attach you to that damn bed before you kill yourself.”

Sherlock glanced up over his hands. “You know I have handcuffs?”

“God, you really are out of it. I found them when Mrs. Hudson and I were cleaning you out. I figured you nicked them from Lestrade once.” John shook his head. “But that’s not the point. Come on, time to go home.”

“Wait.” Sherlock looked up. His eyes were dark and red. He really did look halfway to the grave. The nicotine withdrawal had never been near this bad. “Moriarty.”

“Dead.”

“I know,” Sherlock growled. “But he had a—a second-in-command, you could call it.”

John was unconvinced. This had to be another one of Sherlock’s excuses to get his way. “Moriarty did? The man who worked notoriously far, far above everyone? Had a right-hand man?”

“Yes. And he’s still out there, John.” Sherlock looked back at his hands, through his fingers to the floor. “That’s why I’m still dead.”

 

John thought for a moment, running everything through his mind. He was shipping out tomorrow. He didn’t have time for Sherlock’s games. “Right, that’s enough. Let’s go.”

Sherlock’s arm whipped out and he gripped John’s forearm. He was trembling, but his hold was firm. He stared up at John. “If you leave London, if you go where I can’t follow, Sebastian Moran will kill you.”

“You expect me to believe you?” John shook Sherlock’s hand off.

“You trusted me once, didn’t you?”

John’s gaze shifted away from Sherlock. “That was before you jumped off Bart’s and let me think you were dead for nine months.” He looked back at Sherlock, whose head was hung. “I’m not stupid, not like you and Mycroft and Moriarty and Irene like to all think. I may not be brilliant, not a proper genius, but I’m not stupid. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes lit up and a shadow of his old smile on his mouth. “That’s it!”

“What is?”

“Mycroft. If Mycroft corroborates what I’m saying, then will you stay in London?”

John crossed his arms loosely against his chest. “Oh, like Mycroft’s never lied to me before.”

“Fair enough, but think about it, John: Mycroft and I don’t like each other. He loves every chance to make a fool of me, not that there are many—”

John cut him off, “Your point?”

“So if I’m delusional, then that’s that. But if Mycroft says I’m right, you’ll have to believe I’m telling the truth.”

He hated it, but John actually had to think about Sherlock’s proposition. It seemed sound enough, at least if it happened that Mycroft did call Sherlock’s bluff. Sherlock watched him like a cat while he went back and forth in his head.

“I won’t promise,” John said slowly, “I’ll believe Mycroft if he does corroborate this daft idea of yours, but might as well go hear what he has to say.”

“Brilliant!” Sherlock jumped to his feet. He immediately started to sway and his eyes unfocused. John grabbed his arm and, before they left, led him to the toilet.


	3. Chapter 3

> 23rd March
> 
> _I still need to write, now that Sherlock’s “back” and life is no longer monotonous, but digitizating it even offline is too risky (plus the matter of Sherlock's ever-prying eye). On my way between home and Baker Street, I picked this up. Nice vintage leather notebook. Hopefully Sherlock won’t notice, or read this bit and have the decency to pretend he hasn’t. I don’t think death has changed him very much, though._

John stood in the entryway of the Diogenes Club. He watched Mycroft Holmes, head in a paper, until his text went through. _I know._

Mycroft picked his phone up off the end table beside him and hardly glanced at the screen before looking up at John. He looked annoyed and bored, but not in any way surprised. Of course, John knew it took a lot more to shake the Holmes brothers. Mycroft folded his paper and stood. He walked straight past John, who followed the elder Holmes into the same closed room where John had confronted him last year.

They sat across from one another yet again, and the door to the room was closed. Mycroft folded his hands together and rested his arms on the chair. “Welcome into the know, Dr. Watson.”

“Sebastian Moran,” John said.

“Very much to the point today, aren’t we.”

“Who is he?”

“Yes, the colonel. I suppose my brother was unable to keep quiet on the matter.”

“If he hadn’t I wouldn’t be in London right now.”

“Yes, I saw your little blog. Sometimes I think you’re as dramatic as he is.”

“Who’s Sebastian Moran, Mycroft?”

Mycroft glanced at the paper beside him. “The Colonel.”

“Very helpful you are. Nice to see you, Mycroft.” John rose. “I’ll send you a postcard from the Middle East.”

“Wait.”

John looked back. Mycroft motioned to the seat. John took a moment before sitting back down.

“What did he say about Moran?”

“Nothing. Just that he wanted me dead apparently. Jim Moriarty two-point-o, or something.”

“Well, he isn’t quite up to par with Moriarty, but who is? Aside from my brother of course.”

“Why does Sherlock have to stay dead? Who is this man?”

Mycroft studied him. It made John feel more uncomfortable than Sherlock’s look; like Mycroft’s stare was more mechanical than Sherlock’s. “John.”

“What?”

“Do you know why Sherlock faked his own suicide?”

John’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s not- What does that have to do with anything?”

Mycroft stood and straightened his suit jacket. “It is entirely possible Colonel Moran wants you dead. I believe that’s the question you wanted me to answer. Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”

John got to his feet. “Mycroft. He’s nearly killed himself. Actually killed himself this time.”

Mycroft raised his brow. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here.”

“I’m not his nanny.”

“Oh, even Nanny couldn’t get him to behave.”

“For god’s sake, Mycroft. He’s your brother. Don’t you care?”

The elder Holmes brother paused. “As you say, he’s my brother. That doesn’t change the fact that even if I did try to intervene in his self-destructive habits, he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“And he’ll listen to me?” John’s tone was thick with bitter sarcasm.

“You are his best friend.”

“I’m his only friend,” John scoffed.

Mycroft smiled and left the room.

 

John stood in the hall just outside Sherlock’s door. He looked through the crack into the dim room; Sherlock lay still. John supposed he was sleeping until Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back to see the door.

“Come in, John.”

He opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

“How’s Mycroft?”

“Give him a call if you really care to find out. Sit up,” John ordered.

“What for?” Sherlock was already hoisting himself up in the bed.

“So I can assess your condition.” John held out his hand. Sherlock put his shaky wrist in John’s palm. After he checked Sherlock’s pulse, John turned on the ceiling light. Sherlock squinted. “Open your eyes.” Sherlock obeyed quietly. John checked his eyes and turned the light back off so only a faint gray filtered through the curtains. “You’re dehydrated.” He looked at the full glass of water on the bedside table. “Drink.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Sherlock started to slouch back down.

John grabbed his shoulder. “No you don’t. Drink.”

There was a moment they stared at one another, but it wasn’t any battle of wills. They just stared. Sherlock sat back up and took the glass in his trembling hands.

“And this is why you don’t do drugs,” John said and walked out of the room. He went to the kitchen and sifted through the fridge. Mrs. Hudson and Molly had left food for both Sherlock and him. “What do you want to eat?” John called.

“Nothing.”

“What will you have to eat then?”

“Nothing.”

John rolled his eyes and took out a turkey sandwich in saran wrap. He put it on a plate and brought it to Sherlock’s room. The glass of water wasn’t even half empty and Sherlock was lying down again.

“No you don’t. Sit up.”

“I just need to sleep,” Sherlock murmured.

“You also need to not end up in a hospital, especially with you being dead and all. Now sit up.” Sherlock once more pushed himself so he was half sitting, half reclining in the bed.

John set the plate beside the water and left. He went to the living room and opened his laptop at the table.

A few minutes later Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. The plate was in his hand and he was picking at the sandwich like a child. “Writing your blog?”

“What do you think?” John closed the browser with his search for Sebastian Moran.

“I suppose not.” Sherlock sat across the table from John. “Looking up the Colonel then? Or trying to, I’m sure.”

“Well since neither you nor Mycroft seem keen on telling me much about him.”

“He is a colonel, or rather was. It isn’t some egomaniac title he’s given himself.” Sherlock took a bite of the sandwich.

“Moriarty shot himself.”

“What?” Sherlock said through a mouthful of food. John waited for him to swallow and repeat, “What?”

“Jim Moriarty. He shot himself on the roof. He did it before you jumped.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He took another bite.

John closed his laptop and slid it to the side. “Then why did you jump?”

Sherlock took a long time to finish chewing. “I really don’t think this is the best time—”

“Oh yes it is. Because once you’re all better, you’ll find some way to get around telling me. So this is the perfect time to talk about it.” John didn’t notice he was pressing his knuckles against the tabletop.

Sherlock pushed his plate away. “Three bullets.”

“What?”

“Moriarty had three hit men in position to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. All I had to do to stop them was jump.”

“How does that make any sense?”

“I had to finish Moriarty’s story, his fairytale. Remember? ‘Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain.’” Sherlock put his fingertips together, but the old pose was less formidable with his hands shaking from withdrawal. “Moriarty wasn’t the villain; he was the narrator, the puppet master. I was the bad guy, and the bad guy is always beaten at the end of the story.” He looked over his fingers at John.

John opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away for a moment. When he looked back at Sherlock, he said, “If you had refused to jump, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and I would have been shot?”

“Yes.”

John leaned back in his chair. “But you had it all planned out. Molly helped you fake your own death. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“It had to be believed.”

“You told Mrs. Hudson.”

“I knew Mrs. Hudson could be convincing. You remember the Americans, John.”

“So you just lacked faith in me, then?” John waved away whatever Sherlock’s answer would have been. “No, forget it. Why wait this long? Mycroft can just make it so the real Jim Moriarty existed, and prove Richard Brook was fake. I know he can. So why are you still dead to the world?”

“Sebastian Moran.”

John slammed a fist on the table. “Who the bloody hell is Sebastian Moran? You keep saying his name like it’s an excuse, like it settles everything. Why does it matter if Sebastian Moran thinks you’re dead or alive?”

“He knows I’m alive. What matters is that the world thinks I’m dead, a suicide and a fraud.”

“But that was Moriarty’s vendetta. You can’t tell me the assassins are still following his orders.” Sherlock said nothing. “You’re kidding me.”

“The other two have already been apprehended, months back. But they were nobodies. Sebastian Moran was Moriarty’s right-hand man. Or about as close to a right-hand man as Moriarty would have. He’s clever, though.”

“So Mycroft said.”

“And his bullet is meant for your head.”

John was startled into silence by Sherlock’s bluntness, but only for a moment. “And that’s why you’re staying dead?”

“That’s why I have to stay dead.” Sherlock laid his hands on the table. “Until Moran is in custody, you’ll be dead if I come back to life and the world knows Moriarty was real.”

John looked out the window through the sheer curtain. It had started to drizzle since he got back from the Diogenes Club. “I was supposed to be in Afghanistan tonight.”

“About that,” Sherlock mumbled.

John closed his eyes and sighed. “What did you do?”

“I had Mycroft falsify your paperwork. I needed to see how far you would actually go—if you really would leave London—before showing myself to you.”

“Meaning?”

“Technically, you’re not actually fit for duty.” Sherlock pulled his plate back towards him.

“Sherlock.”

“Technically, you didn’t pass your psychiatric examination. Only by a little. Still undergoing the effects of emotional trauma.” He took a bite and started to chew very thoughtfully.

John stood and put on his coat.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock said around his food.

“To see if the surgery will give me back my job.”

“Oh, no need.” Sherlock swallowed. “Mike Stamford’s moving to Edinburgh. I’m sure you could get his job at Bart’s.”

John shook his head. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t really care to spend every day going back there. I haven’t been back since.”

“But I’m not dead, John.”

“And I think that makes it worse.”

“How?”

John studied Sherlock. For all the man’s brilliance, he really could be an idiot. “Don’t forget to stay hydrated.” He closed the door and went down into the damp street.

 

John stood on the corner of the street, equidistant from the spot where had watched Sherlock fall and the spot where Sherlock fell. He’d seen men and women riddled with bullets and worse between Afghanistan and his time with Sherlock, but standing that close to Bart’s again made him more sick than any of it had. He’d ignored his psychiatrist’s insistence that, eventually, he would have to confront the place again. Maybe he should have come here sooner, before the dead man rose.

Of course the sidewalk was clean of any trace of the fall nine months ago. John circumvented that side of the building, though. Inside the lab was empty. He remembered the fake call about Mrs. Hudson being shot; Sherlock had to have known then what he was going to do. How long did he plan it? It was almost as bad as if Rich Brook were real.

No. Nothing was worse than that, than the idea that Sherlock really was a fake and everything John admired about him—despite all the irritation—was just a story. Sherlock could lie to him, so long as it wasn’t about who he really was.

The door opened behind John and he turned to see Molly walk in.

“Oh. I didn’t expect—Have a seat?” She hurried over to the table and set down the stack of petri dishes she had brought in.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Molly nodded and twisted her fingers. “How is he then?”

“Miserable, and I don’t feel one bit sorry for him.” There was a moment of tense silence before they both smiled. “He’s recovering.”

“That’s good.” Molly looked away and started sorting through the dishes.

“Molly.”

“Hm?” She didn’t turn around. John said her name again. She stopped what she was doing and slowly looked around at him.

“I am sorry.”

“What for?” She half-smiled at him, nervous.

“I don’t know if it’s worse, that he lied to me or that you had to keep his secret.”

For a second her entire face fell. Then she smiled again and went right back to her work. “I’m just glad I could help him.”

John stared at her back. She was hardly moving, her hands fidgeting on the table here and there.

“So,” John said and cleared his throat. “I heard Mike’s leaving.” Molly nodded. “Sherlock said I might be able to—”

Molly turned around suddenly. Her eyes were wet but she was holding back. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“What for?”

“He wanted to tell you, he really did.”

“I’m sure.”

“I mean he really, really wanted to tell you. Don’t be so angry with him, John,” Molly said, almost pleading, almost demanding it.

John was taken aback. “I know why he did it, but I can’t just stop being mad at him—for lying to me.”

“You have to, John. You have to try.” She looked down at her hands. “I think it was hardest on him, not being able to tell you.”

“What? Because of the drugs?” John shook his head. “He was bored, Molly, that’s all. That’s all Sherlock ever gets. He’s either bored or excited about the newest strange murder, and he hasn’t had many of those lately.”

Molly stared at John, and for a moment he thought he saw anger in her face. But then her gaze shifted just off of him. “You shouldn’t say that,” Molly said, so quietly and calmly it startled John. “I need to go—I’ll just—” And she vanished into the hall before John could call her back.


	4. Chapter 4

> June 6th  
>   
>  _I finally see what’s really been eating away at him._

John spent less time at Baker Street over the next few weeks. He checked in at least once a day, and he stayed when Sherlock was in a bad way. He spent most of his days walking, anywhere really. He would just walk until his legs began to hurt and laugh at himself, thinking of the cane that had gone with a box of other things to thrift stores. Then he would turn around and walk as close to home as he could without feeling like his legs would give way.

He called Harry last week, told her somewhat truthfully there had been an error in his paperwork and he would be staying in London after all. She said she was relieved.

Stamford would be finish out the year, and John would spend his summer getting certified to teach. 

Hardly a week into June, John came to Baker Street and found 221b empty. Mrs. Hudson was out. John rang Molly. “He’s gone.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Do you know where he goes?”

Molly was quiet on the other side. John could make out her heavy breathing, could easily figure she wasn’t sure if she should tell John something. “Try the pool.”

“What pool?” But even as he said it, John realized which one. “Why would he go there?”

“I don’t know.” And she hung up.

 

The door closed behind John and left a hollow echo across the pool. Sherlock was seated on the floor where John had collapsed after Sherlock had ripped the jacket of semtex off of him. The dead man didn’t even look up. He looked dead, face gray and more drawn out than normal. He was staring straight ahead—at nothing, at his mind palace, at his thoughts.

“What could possibly possess you to come here?” John said, hands in his pockets, as he stared down at Sherlock.

“There have been very few times in my life where I could say I was truly uncertain about something. I could probably count them on one hand.” He held his hand out and stared at the back of it.

“Baskerville’s one of them I suppose.”

Sherlock grinned and let his hand fall limp. “Well, maybe two hands.”

“Why are we here?”

“I can pinpoint the exact moment when each uncertainty vanished, when one of those rare doubts became clear.” He was still staring off into nothing.

John was going to have to get used to this again, hearing out Sherlock’s thoughts and being used as a sounding board for them. He was impatient, though. He didn’t want to be there.

“Do you remember that night at Angelo’s?”

They’d eaten there plenty of times, but John knew which he meant. “What about it?”

“John, you know how well I read people.”

“What are you getting at, Sherlock?” John sighed.

Sherlock smiled faintly, the smile that just barely pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I couldn’t even tell if you were flirting with me.”

“I wasn’t flirting with you. Mystery cleared up. Now let’s—”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Then tell me the point. I can’t see inside that thick skull of yours.” John added under his breath, “I don’t think I’d even want to.”

“It wasn’t because you were special—”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I never know what you mean.”

At last Sherlock looked at him, just slightly. He turned his head a bit and looked at John out of the edge of his vision. “You mentioned Baskerville. Remember then, I was so uncertain. Do you remember why?”

“You were drugged.”

“Not just the drugs.”

John hesitated. Deny it all he wanted, Sherlock had a great deal of pride and cared at least what some people thought of him. “You were scared.”

“Precisely. I was confronted with an intense emotion and it interfered with my process.”

John crossed his arms. “You’re blaming the sugar incident on the drugs now, aren’t you?”

“John.”

“Can’t we have this discussion at Baker Street?”

“Hear me out, please.” He turned to face John a little more.

“Then get to a point already.”

Sherlock stayed quiet for another moment, though. “When I saw you walk in here, and say those things, for a moment I thought you weren’t who I thought you were. Who I was sure you were. And then I saw the headset, and then the bomb.”

“Yes, I was there.” John’s skin tingled at the memory, of being nabbed off the street and strapped to semtex and hooked up to hear Moriarty’s voice in his head, forced to say those things to Sherlock.

“I went from absolute uncertainty to fear, in a split moment.”

“If memory serves me right, you seemed fairly collected.”

“Only because I was no longer uncertain.” His smile stretched a little further. It was like that smile he got when he had solved part of a case, come to some deduction or another.

“I think you’re actually making less sense than you usually make,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s smile fell. “You’re not listening.”

“I am listening, Sherlock. Listen to yourself. For once you’re the one who sounds like a blabbering idiot.”

Sherlock turned away again.

“I’m sorry,” John sighed. “Alright? Tell me what it is you want to say. Just get it out, though.”

When Sherlock spoke again, only the echo of the pool made him audible. “I care about you, John.”

John paused, his arms slowly falling slack to his sides. “I know.”

“Move back to Baker Street, John. Please.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Alright.”

> _It hasn’t been the boredom or the drugs; I think for the first time in his life—or at least in a very, very long time—he’s been alone, and he’s felt it. I think he either never knew or forgot what loneliness was. He’s too stubborn to make amends with Mycroft, and I think he cares enough about Molly to keep from giving her false hope. It took him ages and a few embarrassing moments for both of them, but I think he’s finally come around to understanding Molly’s feelings for him, and how what he says to her can hurt. At least I’ve had Harry. Damn, at least I’ve had a shrink. Sherlock hasn’t even had a stranger._  
> 

Sherlock slept almost solidly through the next few days while John moved back into the upstairs bedroom of 221b. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, fluttered about overjoyed about John’s return.

John was upstairs unpacking the last box when the doorbell rang. He kept working until Mrs. Hudson called him down. Downstairs Sherlock was emerging from his bedroom, and Mycroft was waiting in the living room.

It was a sign of Sherlock’s state that he didn’t bother to make a snide remark to Mycroft. He just sat down in his chair and waited for Mycroft to speak.

“Been reading the paper much?”

“Yeah,” John said. Mycroft handed him the one he had had folded under his arm. The date was tomorrow. The headline read: MYSTERIOUS SNIPER MURDERS LEAVE THE YARD BAFFLED. John skimmed it, enough to know the victims appeared unconnected. He handed the paper to Sherlock, who just folded it and set it in his lap. “Moran?”

“He’s trying to draw me out,” Sherlock said.

“Why?” It was always a risk, asking that question in a room with not one but both of the Holmes brothers. A risk, and often necessary.

“Bored,” Sherlock said. “Bored of waiting, or maybe there’s money in it for him.”

“Money that gets unlocked with my obituary,” John said. “Lovely.”

“I suppose we’ll have to let Lestrade know now,” Sherlock sighed. John looked between the brothers, but Mycroft gave no argument. Then Sherlock looked at John.

“I’m not telling him,” John said. “I’m still adjusting myself, thanks.”

“Well we can hardly invite him ‘round for a cuppa,” Sherlock said. His gaze drifted to Mycroft, and John followed it.

Mycroft gave a long, drawn out sigh. “You know I don’t like legwork.”

“Oh, get your hands dirty for once,” Sherlock said.

“Might do you some good.” John was barely holding back a smirk. “Besides, I’m sure you could come up with some bollocks excuse that would bring him to you. You wouldn’t even have to leave your office.”

“Fine,” Mycroft said. “This once.”

John was startled by Mycroft’s consent. If Sherlock was surprised, he hid it. Sherlock tossed Mycroft the paper and slouched in the chair with his eyes closed.

“Bye then, Mycroft,” John said pointedly and nodded to the door. Mycroft raised a brow, but inclined his head and left. “Why now?” John said once the front door had closed.

“Probably because you know, and you’re back here. I think he likes to play games,” Sherlock sighed. “In a way, he might be more dangerous than Moriarty.”

“More dangerous?” John sat down in his old chair across from Sherlock.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock opened his eyes but just stared at the ceiling. “He isn’t as clever, of course, but his motives are different. Moriarty wanted chaos; Moran’s goal is more narrowed.”

“Me.”

“Killing in general, I think, but yes.”

John ran his nails back and forth on the arm of the chair. “So less dangerous to the commonwealth, and more dangerous to me.”

“Us,” Sherlock murmured.

“What?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pushed himself more upright. “I think I’m hungry.”

“Only you wouldn’t be certain about that.” John got up and went to the kitchen to get them lunch.


	5. Chapter 5

> June 10th
> 
> _I’m not certain if I’d rather be out of practice dealing with Sherlock’s oddities, or if this was really as absurd as it sounded._

The last of John’s things had been moved and unpacked late into the night. Between juggling the move and Sherlock’s recovery, John had every intention of sleeping in. Instead he woke up at half past six needing to take a leak. As he started to sit up, he noticed the inside of his pants were damp. He pulled off the sheet and groaned.

“I’m a grown man having wet dreams,” he muttered to himself. “Fantastic.”

John put on his robe and bundled his sheets and pants. He brought them down to the washer, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Mrs. Hudson. His landlady, though, was already sitting down to breakfast.

“Morning, Dr. Watson. You’re up early.”

“Yes, good morning. I was going to do some reading and spilled a cup on my sheets.” He motioned to the washer closet beside the kitchen doorway.

“Better put them in the wash before they stain then.” She smiled and took a sip of her own tea.

John hurried with the wash and made his way upstairs to piss and shower. He stood with the cold water running over him, thinking about what his life had been like over the last year. The last woman he’d slept with was Jeanette, and that was more than eighteen months ago. He’d gone on a date with a woman named Cassie a week before Moriarty showed up and everything became hell. Obviously he hadn’t called her back. And since that morning in front of Bart’s—what had his life been? Getting through each day. Barely.

At least now there was something to do again. Damn Sherlock Holmes, but at least now John didn’t feel like life was nothing anymore—like he had after Afghanistan. And somehow worse.

 

Lestrade came around late in the morning. Sherlock, who had taken to sleeping through most hours of night and day, was lounging in his chair half asleep when the detective inspector called. John heard Mrs. Hudson greet him, and from the tone of her voice John was brought to the realization that they hadn’t informed her of their intention to bring Lestrade into the circle. He folded up his paper and dropped it on Sherlock’s lap to bring him around, then went out to the stairs.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson,” he called down. “Mycroft’s told him.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m sorry, Detective Inspector.”

“It’s quite all right,” he said and made his way up. Lestrade looked as harrowed as ever, maybe even more than usual. “John,” he said with a nod. “I’ve been told we have a dead man walking among us.”

John gave a half grin and showed Lestrade in. Sherlock still had his eyes closed, but after all the time he’d spent around the man, John could tell he was awake. He gathered the paper and sat back in his own chair. “Have a seat.”

“No, I can only stay for a minute,” Lestrade said in a hushed voice. He motioned to Sherlock. “He looks like shit.”

“Your kindness,” Sherlock said, making Lestrade start slightly, “is always appreciated, Detective Inspector.”

“For a moment I had hopes you really were dead,” Lestrade retorted.

John stared blankly at his paper, his fingers crinkling the pages. Lestrade didn’t take notice, and Sherlock said nothing.

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “Just paying a visit?”

“Yeah, and I need to know about this Moran chap.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, putting his fingertips together. “Mycroft’s gotten away with doing the minimum, as usual.”

“To be fair,” Lestrade said, pushing his coat back, “by the time I got to accepting the fact that you were alive, it was late and we’d had a few.”

“Well. What do you want to know?”

“Anything that will help me track the bastard down.”

“Even with your extensive experience and resources,” Sherlock droned, “that would be quite the feat.”

“Then how do you expect this to stop? People are dying, Sherlock. Pretend all you like, but I’ve known you long enough to know that bothers you.”

John peered over his paper. For a moment he thought Sherlock was staring at empty space; then he saw Sherlock was staring at him. Sherlock looked abruptly away and up at Lestrade. “I’m working on it. I’ll let you know when I have an idea.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Just let me know when you have something—anything—that could help.”

“Well he wants to kill me,” John offered. Lestrade looked over and John gave him a humorless smile.

“You’re serious?”

“Did you know, I think you’ve been here more than a minute,” Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade ignored him and continued with John, “Sebastian Moran’s really after you?”

John put the newspaper down in his lap. “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Otherwise I think I’d be dead already.”

“Good day, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said loudly.

John and Lestrade both looked at him. “Just call me when—”

“Yes, now out. Please,” he added snidely.

John shook his head at Lestrade with a silent, “Sorry. He’s being more of a bastard than usual.” Lestrade sighed and left.

“You really have got the worst pride,” John said, picking his paper up again with the intent of actually reading it this time. Sherlock didn’t reply. He was quiet for a moment before asking John if he could borrow his phone. “What for?”

“I want to send Mycroft a text.”

“Why not,” John muttered. He was about to get up to find his mobile when Sherlock produced it from his robe pocket. John went back to the paper.

Only for a moment. “John.”

“Hm?” He pretended to be engrossed in an article about the economy.

“You should have sex.”

John almost dropped his paper. He opened his mouth to respond, but it took a moment for him to simply say, “What?”

“I assume you need the release—”

“You don’t assume anything, first of all. Second of all, it’s none of your bloody business.” It was taking all of John’s self-control and a constant internal mantra reminding him that this was Sherlock, and this was Sherlock in withdrawal, to keep from shouting at the man across from him. He wasn’t even going to ask how Sherlock had found out about this morning; the man hadn’t left the second floor since they got back from the pool the other day.

“Actually,” Sherlock started.

“No,” John said. “There is no possible excuse for you to have any interest in this.” There was a heartbeat when John expected some kind of counter, but none came. “Oh, you have got to be joking.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“If you’re implying—”

“I haven’t implied anything,” Sherlock said, with the faintest hint of that old scheming side to himself John hadn’t seen since the near overdose.

“Then let’s leave it at that.” John folded the newspaper and got up.

He had barely taken a step towards the kitchen when Sherlock spoke up again. “When I said you, I meant—”

John turned around. The look he gave Sherlock alone shut him up. Then he forced himself to relax and let out a heavy sigh. “Do us all a favor, Sherlock, and just try to shut up until you’re not in withdrawal.” He made his way down the stairs and called to Mrs. Hudson that he was going out.

 

Well after lunch, and going without, John wound up at Bart’s. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed home away from home. And it was feeling less tainted, though he doubted the bitter taste at seeing the sidewalk would ever completely go away. Once he was inside, though, it subsided.

Molly was working in the mortuary, sowing up an autopsy. John tapped on the glass of Observation and she started. He gave an apologetic smile and waved. After she finished they went to the canteen for coffee.

“How’ve you been, Molly? I feel like all we ever talk about is him.”

“It’s all right. I’m fine. I just try to stay busy.” Molly stared down into her styrofoam cup. “Plenty to do around this place.”

John watched her study her coffee. What had she and Sherlock gone through in the last year? What had he missed? He opened his mouth to speak, but she looked up suddenly with an obviously forced smile.

“I suppose you found him at the pool the other day then?”

“Yeah. How did you know he would be there?”

“I’ve found him there before.” Molly picked up her coffee. “He had mentioned it.”

John didn’t push. Whatever had passed between Molly and Sherlock was none of his business. Still, for nine months the man who trusted no one had trusted someone other than John. Maybe his pride was just as bad as Sherlock’s.

“I’ve moved back to Baker Street,” he said.

“Really? Good. That’ll be good for him.” She was earnest. All she cared about was that Sherlock was okay. Molly Hooper really was something else.

“Well he’s already driving me up the wall,” John said. Molly smiled, though. After a moment John chuckled. “I guess I just have to get used to it again. God,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Look at us. We can’t even have coffee without him prying into our lives.”

“He’s like that, though,” Molly said.

“What do you mean?”

“When you don’t know him, not really know him, he’s just this brilliant, mean person. But you and I know what he’s really like.” She looked straight at John.

“Sometimes he’s more human than other humans,” he said. He didn’t realize until after he said it that he was echoing his speech in the graveyard, and the memory stung him afresh. “And he’s still a right bastard.” Molly laughed, and it struck John that he had never heard her laugh before.

 

Sherlock was on the couch, definitely asleep, when John came back at tea. John’s phone was on the table with an unread message from Mycroft. _Really, brother, you have your own concerns. –MH_. Whatever Sherlock’s outgoing message had been, he had deleted it. John erased Mycroft’s reply and went to make tea.

At some point while John was in the kitchen, Sherlock woke up. He was sitting with his legs curled under his chin when John came back to the living room. He set the plates on the table and started to eat. After a moment Sherlock joined him.

When John was done eating, Sherlock spoke, his plate not even half empty. “John—”

John held up a hand. “You’re sick right now, Sherlock. You’re sick and you’re vulnerable, and you can pretend you’re just as much of a dick as you usually are and that’s fine.” John took a breath. “I know you don’t form any sort of attachments to people, not easily and almost never. But, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m not gay. You’re my best mate, and I care about you, but that's all.”

It was a rare thing for the wheels in Sherlock’s head to slow enough that others could see them moving; so rare John doubted he’d ever witnessed it before then. It was like watching a toddler sort out something brand new, like how to open a door.

And then John remembered the one time Sherlock had faltered like this: Irene Adler. That first meeting in her living room, he couldn’t read her. Sherlock had told John that much later, after the plane screw-up. But Sherlock could always read John, so what was it?

“You’re right,” Sherlock said. His face went blank, resumed its carefully measured mask. “It’s just the withdrawal.” He rose, paused, and picked up both plates to bring them to the kitchen. John watched him move mechanically, scraping off the plates and putting them in the sink. Then he disappeared off to his room.

John didn’t like it. Yes, Sherlock was still in withdrawal, but the worst was over. He thought it was. They weren’t out of the danger zone yet, though, and Sherlock had always managed to hide something somewhere without John or Mrs. Hudson finding it. He got up and followed Sherlock’s trail.

In the bedroom, though, Sherlock was curled up on his bed with his back to the door. He turned partly over when John opened the door, and it was clear there was nothing on his arms. It was still possible he had swallowed something.

“What?” Sherlock said.

“Nothing,” John replied.

Sherlock had followed John’s gaze, though. “I haven’t taken anything,” he said and turned his back to the door again. To John.

John felt a small pang of guilt. No wonder Sherlock didn’t trust him with the fact that he was alive; John couldn’t even trust him to stay clean. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think it really matters, John, and right now I would just like to sleep.”

John walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Get it out.”

“What?”

“You always need a sounding board for your deductions. You do a lot of it in your head, but sometimes you catch something if you say it out loud.” John allowed himself a smile. “I think I’ve learned something about you after a few years, Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. “It’s me or the skull, and the skull won’t be able to give you any feedback on a topic that—I’m sorry to say—you have a less than extensive knowledge of.”

“It doesn’t have to be you, though.”

“Who else are you going to talk to about it then?”

“Molly,” Sherlock ventured.

“You’re more of a stupid git than I thought if you think that’s a good idea. So take me through it, just like one of your cases.” John waited patiently for Sherlock to say something.

Sherlock began his list slowly, and picked up a little as he went on. “You spend most of your time around me, willingly, even when I’m not being particularly personable; even when it meant cancelling a date, and losing a job. Your focus lingers on me longer than on others, and longer than others consider me. You’re, obviously, concerned about my wellbeing. But your concern is greater than that of others’, even your sister. Even yourself. And you’ve always concerned yourself with how others perceive me, long before I fell.”

John couldn’t argue with any of that—at times he felt guilty that he could handle Sherlock’s crap more than Harry’s—but he’d always known his friendship with Sherlock wasn’t ordinary. “There’s more to a relationship, a romantic one, than just caring about someone.”

“Is there?” Sherlock sounded more accusing than confused.

“Yes.” Part of John wanted to laugh, though. Sherlock could claim all he wanted that he understood the chemistry behind things like love, and refuse to admit there was more than just chemistry, but look at him now. “There’s usually an attraction between the two people.”

“But,” Sherlock said, “you are attracted to me.”

“For once, Sherlock,” John sighed, “you are completely wrong.”

“Perhaps not physically, but emotionally.”

John started. “Emotionally?”

“Yes, emotional attraction.”

John waited a moment before he stood up. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, but emotional attraction doesn’t equate to a relationship.”

“Doesn’t it? Isn’t that what most relationships are founded upon, long-term? People generally lose their physical appeal at a certain age. If physical attraction was the basis of every lasting relationship, there wouldn’t be any lasting relationships.” Sherlock said all of this with his back still to John, so there was no way he could see the confusion and surprise on John's face.

Maybe Sherlock knew more about sentiment than he usually let on. Maybe nine months with Molly as his only real company had taught him something. Either way, John left Sherlock’s bedroom a lot less sure of himself.


	6. Chapter 6

> June 30th
> 
> _We’ve barely spoken for almost three weeks. Of course, when there wasn’t a case, we didn’t usually speak much. But that was a comfortable silence, serene almost. Now I find myself looking at him, expecting him to be staring at me, or thinking he’ll say something. But he hasn’t; he’s just quietly recovering. I think we’re just about out of the danger zone, at least in that respect._

Sherlock was playing his violin, something he’d only recently resumed in the past few days. John was looking over an e-mail he was writing in response to Harry’s inquiries about how he was doing. She’d been hanging over him ever since Sherlock’s “death,” and now after almost going back to Afghanistan she was even worse, asking him repeatedly to come visit. John was trying to word his e-mail to sound as detailed as possible, without actually saying anything important. Aside from training for his teaching certification, anything important going on revolved, as usual, around Sherlock. The dead man.

There was a knock downstairs, on which Sherlock commented, “Lestrade.” Sure enough, it was the detective inspector Mrs. Hudson let up. “Seen Mycroft lately?” Sherlock said with a smirk only John could see; his back was still to the rest of the living room; even with the curtains drawn he preferred to play facing the window.

“No,” Lestrade replied. “Have you got anything on Moran?”

Sherlock put down his violin. “How many?”

“Three this time.”

“How many was it last time?” John saved the e-mail to his drafts and closed his laptop.

“Seven.”

“There won’t be a pattern,” Sherlock said.

“In most cases,” Lestrade said with a dry smile, “I would love to say you’re absolutely wrong. But this time I wish you were right.”

“There is a pattern?” John said.

“Yeah, 221 Baker Street.” He pointed to the floor. “All of the murders have happened exactly half a miles from here, in different directions.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured and put up his instrument. “Well, it’s a good thing we brought you into the fold when we did. Keep the Yard off us and everything.” Sherlock smiled, his old unamused, half-squinting smile.

Lestrade just crossed his arms. “And you don’t have any ideas yet on how to flush him out?”

“No workable ideas, no.”

“All right. Just be careful you two. Especially you, John.”

“Thanks,” John said.

“Not just because he’s after you. People are going to see that you moved back here, around the same time all these murders started. It doesn’t look good.”

John hadn’t thought of that. He nodded to Lestrade, and the detective inspector left. Sherlock twirled his bow and flopped down in his chair with a real grin on his face.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” John opened up his laptop and waited for it to come out of sleep mode.

“Lestrade and Mycroft.” Sherlock tipped his bow side to side like a metronome.

“What about them?”

“They’re shagging,” Sherlock mused. “Or they have, at least twice now. I’d say very likely three times, though.”

John almost slammed his laptop closed. “What?”

“You really didn’t notice?”

“Sherlock—”

“When he walked in,” Sherlock said, pointing the bow loosely towards the door, “and I asked him about Mycroft, he didn’t even seem surprised or confused about why I was asking after my brother, of him.”

“That’s your basis? Not the possibility that maybe they’ve been working on this Moran case together? Since Lestrade can’t come here too often for the sake of keeping you dead.”

Sherlock scratched his forehead with the tip of the bow. “Unlikely.”

John rolled his eyes and picked up his laptop. As he headed to the stairs, Sherlock asked where he was going. He turned around and forced himself to speak calmly. “Sometimes, Sherlock, sometimes people’s private lives should be left private. I know you can’t turn it off, your constant deductions, but at least make an effort to put them aside.”

A few minutes after John was in his bedroom, still trying to finalize his e-mail to Harry, Sherlock knocked at his door.

“What?” John spoke sharply, not turning away from his screen.

“I’m sorry.” John started and looked up at the man leaning in his doorway. “But you said I could use you as a sounding board.”

“Not everything in the world needs to be solved, Sherlock. Let people have their privacy sometimes.”

There was a pause, during which John went back to the e-mail, before Sherlock said, “I didn’t say anything in front of him at least.”

John grinned at the screen. “Yeah, well, he did have a gun, so I don’t know how much of that was self-control.” He could see Sherlock smiling from the corner of his eyes before vacating John’s door and returning downstairs.

John gave up on fine-tuning the e-mail and sent it. He brought his laptop back downstairs and plugged it in at the table before turning to his chair. Sherlock was wrapped up in his own, chin on his knees, staring away at his mind palace.

“I need to meet him,” Sherlock said after John sat down.

“Who?”

“Sebastian Moran.” He looked up at John. “I need to see him, even for a moment.”

“What for?”

“I have no first-hand data on him. Hardly any second-hand data. It’s making it difficult to find a solution to our problem.”

“Call him up for a cuppa then?” John said. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and locked his fingers together. “How do you think you’ll fix this meeting?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock murmured. “Yet.” His eyes unfocused again, so John picked up the book he’d been reading and let his friend think in silence.

At some point John’s phone buzzed with a text message. _There is one way. –MH._ “Your brother.” He tossed Sherlock the phone, who caught it, read the message, replied, and set the phone on the arm of his own chair.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all. Don’t suppose I’ll see them, though.”

“Hm, no,” Sherlock said, and waited for a response. The Holmes brothers went back and forth only briefly, four messages each, before Sherlock returned John his phone. “I need to go out.”

“No you don’t,” John said without taking his eyes of the page.

“I’m not going to be recognized,” Sherlock said. “I’ve done it for nine months.”

“Not what I’m worried about.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “I’m not going to buy,” he said.

“I’m sure you’re not, but the only way I’m letting you out of here is in Molly’s company, and she’s working.”

Sherlock fell back into his chair. “How long is it going to be until you trust me to stay clean?”

“Ages, I’m sure.” John turned the page.

“Aren’t you sick of babysitting me all day?” Sherlock prodded.

“More than you know,” John lied.

And of course Sherlock called him on it, singing, “Liar.” He picked up his violin bow and ran the ribbon through his fingers.

“Yeah, well, I should be.”

“So why aren’t you?”

John put down his book and looked across at Sherlock. “You really need to have this conversation again?”

“What conversation?” Sherlock feigned innocence, and poorly.

“Sentiment, Sherlock. Friendly sentiment that is quickly giving way to annoyance.” Sherlock laughed under his breath. John shook his head. “I’m not going to ask.”

“Yes you are.”

“Alright, then. What’s so damn funny?”

“Absolutely nothing, John.” Sherlock put his bow aside and took on an air that said he was changing the subject. “Can I ask you something?”

“I’m surprised you’re making the request.” John memorized the page number he was on and closed his book. “Go ahead.”

“How did you feel after I died? Not right after. Over the months.” Sherlock looked right into John, and John was too stubborn to look away even though his chest wrenched in upon itself.

“Miserable,” he said. “Alone and bloody miserable.”

“That’s all?” Sherlock’s voice was somewhere between a line of detective inquiry and actual concern, and the latter threw John a bit.

“I’m sure you watched me plenty,” John accused. “Don’t need to tell you what I went through.” Sherlock curled his lips in and looked away. “There’s something specific you want to ask about, isn’t there?”

“Your nightmares came back, the ones of Afghanistan.”

“Yes,” John said. “No. Sort of, but not exactly the same.” John looked down at his hands. Since Sherlock died, he hadn’t felt alive enough to miss the war—either the one in Afghanistan or the one in London. Now he was afraid they would start shaking again, but they stayed loyal and still. “I would dream about the war, but instead of treating soldiers who had no hope of living, most of which were already dead by the time they got to me, they brought me you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. John wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. The dreams? Abandoning him? Lying to him? The drugs? All of it?

“You’re not exactly in control of my subconscious, are you?”

Sherlock rose and walked by John’s chair. He stood next to it, facing the kitchen, and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. John couldn’t see his face.

 

A few nights later, John made his way to the stairs to go to the bathroom. The living room light was on, but he didn’t think much of it until he caught the sound of quiet voices and slowed his descent. One was definitely Sherlock, and the other, after a moment of hard listening, John could make out as Molly.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Sherlock was saying.

“It’s not easy for the rest of us.” John could hear Molly’s gentle smile in her voice. “Most people just have a bit more experience.”

“I don’t even understand it,” Sherlock said, clearly frustrated.

“No one really understands it. I guess that’s something you won’t like about it.”

“I thought I did. The chemistry—”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Molly interrupted softly, “there are some things that science can’t explain.”

John expected some retort, but instead the silence was filled with a soft clinking of metal. It was a familiar sound, but John couldn’t place it.

Molly interrupted the quiet, “Have you at least said it right out?”

“Not as such,” Sherlock muttered.

“I don’t know what else to suggest. I’m not very good at this sort of thing myself, as you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

John blinked. Had he heard Sherlock right?

“It’s not your fault,” Molly said soothingly. “I should have given up years ago, I really should have. I knew better.”

“You still count, Molly. I never deserved it of you.”

“Good friends rarely deserve each other, Sherlock. That’s what makes their relationship so strong.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Sentiment.”

“Sentiment,” Molly echoed, yawning at the end of the word. “I think I’ll be off then. Need anything tomorrow?”

John started to ease back up the stairs.

“No, thank you. Good night, Molly Hooper.”

“Good night.”

From the dark top of the stairs, John watched Molly leave. He went back to bed, forgetting about his full bladder for a good five minutes before rushing back down to a dark and empty second floor. Sherlock had gone to bed.

 

The next morning, while John was sitting at the table eating, Sherlock came out of his bedroom yawning and stretched. He poured himself a cup and sat down across from John. The first thing out of his mouth was, “You’re a very loud breather, John.”

It took John a moment to connect the dots. Still he said, “What?”

“Oh, don’t play the idiot.”

“Everyone’s an idiot to you,” John said.

“Can I borrow your phone? I need to text Lestrade.”

John slid it across the table. “You could let him sleep you know.”

“Oh, I don’t think he slept much last night.” Sherlock picked up the phone and started typing an incredibly long message. After he sent it, he erased it and passed it back to John.

“Not expecting a reply?”

“No, I expect he’ll be around within the hour.”

“Ah,” John said. “You’ve pissed him off then, haven’t you?”

Sherlock raised a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“If you haven’t got a dead body or Moran, I’m thinking that’s the only way you could get Lestrade to show up here in an hour.” John pointedly checked his watch.

“Well don’t time me. He’s coming from a different part of London than he’s used to.”

John gathered his dishes and made for the kitchen. “You’re a real bastard at times, Sherlock.” His friend didn’t reply, and when John looked back through the kitchen to the living room he saw Sherlock peering through a crack in the curtains. “You’ll be spotted like that,” he called.

Someone rang the bell and Sherlock turned from the window. He went over to his chair and picked something up.

“Want to make yourself scarce,” John suggested.

“Not necessary.” A moment later Molly appeared looking frazzled. Sherlock presented her with the object in his hand—her phone.

“Thanks,” she sighed with relief. She noticed John in the doorway to the kitchen. “John! Good morning.”

“Morning, Molly. When did you leave your phone here?”

“Oh, I—”

Sherlock rescued her, “Molly popped in after you turned in, just to check on me.”

“Yeah,” Molly said, glancing nervously between Sherlock and John. “Anyway, late for work. Bye. Thanks.” She waved her phone and scurried off.

“Good friend, Molly Hooper,” John commented, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

“Yes, she is,” Sherlock said. He sat down in his chair and picked up the morning paper Mrs. Hudson always brought up for him.

“New shootings in there yet?”

“No.” Sherlock flipped through the pages. “No, no, and no. I’m sure they’ll be in the evening paper.”

 

Not an hour after Molly left, Lestrade showed up. It was almost sixty minutes on the dot from when Sherlock texted him. He was slightly red in the face as he came into the room.

“Did you bring the tapes?” Sherlock said before Lestrade could get in a word.

The Detective Inspector crossed his arms. “No, I did not bring the bloody tapes. Wh—”

“Not surprised. Thought I might as well ask at least.”

Lestrade was about to say something when he suddenly realized John was in the room. He looked back at Sherlock and slowly worked the words from his mouth. “That text message, Sherlock—”

“Oh, I won’t say anything. I’m dead, remember? I just needed you to be quick, that’s all.”

“I was in the middle of—” Lestrade clapped his mouth shut. Sherlock just smiled almost absently. “You’re not getting the tapes.”

“What tapes?” John broke into what had to be called a conversation.

“The CCTV tapes of Moran’s victims’ deaths. You can’t see Moran on them anyway.”

“Obviously. I’d still like to see them. And any of the photographs from the crime scenes. Please,” he added, and John wondered if it had been anyone but Lestrade, Sherlock might have been sincere.

“I can’t show people evidence of an ongoing investigation, Sherlock. You’re not a consulting detective anymore, remember? You’re dead.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said with a thin smile. “I’m dead, so technically you won’t be showing anyone the evidence.”

“And what about John?”

“I’m not even here,” John said. Sherlock grinned.

Lestrade stood there, staring back and forth between the two. “You’re a real bastard sometimes, Sherlock.”

John chuckled. “I just told him the same thing this morning.”

“Well you’re not helping,” Lestrade snapped.

John looked at Lestrade a little surprised, but not apologetic. The Yarder did a one-eighty and slammed the door on his way out.

“What did that text say?” John said once the door stopped shaking.

“Nothing.”

“Course not.”

“You wouldn’t care for it.” Sherlock picked up his violin.

“And that’s stopped you before?” Sherlock stood and faced the window. As he did, John made out the muffled clink of metal again. “What is that?”

“What’s what?”

“That sound. It’s familiar.”

“What sound?” Sherlock started playing.

John went over to Sherlock and stuck his hand inside Sherlock’s robe pocket. Sherlock jumped away, but John had already closed his hands around the object and it came out with his fist. John opened his hand, and in his palm were his old dog tags. “Where did you get these?”

“Must have picked them up and forgotten them,” Sherlock said, turning back to the window.

“Picked them up where?”

“The floor, obviously. They must have fallen out when you were moving.”

“That’s not possible,” John said. He couldn’t take his eyes of his own tags.

“Of course it is.” Sherlock wasn’t playing, though his instrument was propped against his chin and his bow in position.

“No, it’s not. These were in a box with all my other documents—birth certificate, passport. So how did they end up in the pocket of your robe?” John looked up at Sherlock’s back. Sherlock said nothing. “What could you possibly want with these?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. And he started playing.

 

Lestrade returned after tea. He had a single, small cardboard box with him that he put on their table. “If I lose my job over this,” he started.

“You won’t,” Sherlock insisted as he began riffling through the box’s contents. “Because it will catch you a killer.” He looked up at Lestrade to say thanks before returning to the box.

Lestrade looked startled. He turned to John. “Did he just thank me?”

“Yup,” John said. “He’s been doing that lately.”

“Christ,” Lestrade murmured. “About that text,” he said.

“Won’t mention it again,” Sherlock assured him.

Lestrade looked at John, and the doctor shrugged. “I don’t even know what it said.”

After Lestrade left, John joined Sherlock at the box. There were maybe a dozen tapes, an envelope of photographs, and another of paperwork.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to piece together something new from this?”

“Let’s find out.”

John went out to get lunch and a map. They pinned the map on the wall, ate, and went to work. Sherlock chose a skein of blue and red string. He gave John the blue and had him link each of the locations of death to 221 Baker Street. Sherlock started examining the photographs of the victims and surrounding area. With bits of red string, he attached two of the locations to points other than 221 Baker Street. Then he dove into the videotapes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 28/04/12

> July 8th
> 
> _He’s been fiddling with the map for a week now. Every so often he’ll go to look at it, tweak some of the red strings, and more often than not put them right back to where they were. It’s kept him occupied, but I think that’s started to wear off._

Sherlock walked in well after lunch looking like he’d just woken up, which might have been the case as he was still pouring over the map and the videotapes when John turned in. “Writing about me again?” he mused aloud as he sat in his chair across from John.

“My life doesn’t revolve around you,” John muttered. He closed his journal and put it aside.

“Met someone then?”

“Hm, can’t exactly date when I’m living with a dead man.”

“Probably not a good idea, no.” Sherlock yawned. “So you were writing about me.”

John motioned to the map. “Get anywhere with that last night?”

“No,” Sherlock said and frowned slightly. “Did you ever consider what I said?”

“That’s specific.”

“Emotional attraction.”

John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, you can’t keep bringing this up.”

“I was merely asking—”

“It’s nothing something you can merely ask about.”

Sherlock put his fingertips together and studied John for a moment. “If you answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

“I don’t have one,” John said.

“Yes you do.”

John started to shake his head. Then he remembered the incident with the dog tags. Curiosity had been nagging at him for days, shoved into a corner of his mind with a lot of other things. “No,” he said. “I haven’t thought about it. And there’s no point in thinking about it. I’m not—”

“Gay, yes. You are starting to sound like a broken record, though.” Sherlock lowered his hands to his lap, fingertips still pressed together. “I’m sure Lestrade would say much the same thing, but that hasn’t stopped him—”

John interrupted him, “Lestrade’s personal life is not my business. It’s not yours either. My turn. Why did you steal my tags?”

Sherlock shifted his gaze, just slightly, just enough so that he wasn’t looking John in the eye. He smiled distantly, and to himself, as if for a moment the room was empty. “Sentiment,” he said.

“Sentiment,” John repeated, unconvinced. “You and sentiment don’t go together.”

The smile dissolved. “I’m well aware.” He rose and swept past John into the hall and back to his room.

John sat utterly perplexed. Sherlock and sentiment didn’t go together. The last time Sherlock had shown even the slightest sign of sentiment, while sober, was with Irene Adler.

Except that wasn’t entirely true. Most people would call Sherlock about as sentimental as a brick, or less than. But John wasn’t most people, not when it came to Sherlock. He’d seen plenty of moments that hinted at sentiment, vague and not worthy of note in most people, but everything when seen in Sherlock. Irene was just the most obvious. He’d been ready to kill Moriarty to save John; kill the one man of equal intellect that could ensure his life wouldn’t be so boring—for John’s life. He had killed himself, allowed his reputation and pride to be shredded, for John.

And here he was: staying dead, staying a fraud, all to keep John alive.

And none of it had been the result of withdrawal symptoms. Sherlock was clean when he made those decisions.

And John was annoyed about dog tags? Sherlock, the living computer, showed one sign of material sentiment, and John just shot him down. For what? Because it made him feel uncomfortable? To hell with his discomfort.

John went up to his bedroom to retrieve the tags from his nightstand. He looked at them for a moment. A name, a number, a blood type. If Sherlock was going to sentimentalize anything, it’d be something like this. But they’d been through hell and back, just like John had. And Sherlock was still there, digging his way out. John closed his hand around the tags, the chain swinging from his fingers.

Sherlock grunted “what” at the door in response to John’s knock. John cracked the door, paused, and pushed it open. He poured the dog tags and chain onto the nightstand. Sherlock looked from them and up at John, but the ex-army doctor left before Sherlock could say anything.

 

John had a back-to-back certification lecture and workshop the next day and didn’t come home until after tea. He opened the front door and made out raised voices upstairs. He took the steps in twos and threes and swung open the door just as Sherlock shouted, “It is not an option, Mycroft!” The Holmes brothers turned to John in synch. Sherlock looked somewhat startled, but Mycroft was his usual annoyingly complacent self.

“I don’t think dead men shout,” John said, closing the door behind him.

“Just the person I wanted to see,” Mycroft started to say.

“Out,” Sherlock—snarled. John could hardly believe it, but Sherlock had just snarled. At Mycroft.

Mycroft took it in stride, raised a brow, picked up his umbrella, and tipped his head to John on his way out. Sherlock flung himself into his chair.

“What the hell was that about?” John set his bag down at the table and took his seat across from Sherlock.

“Nothing,” Sherlock muttered, still scowling. He leapt from his chair and went over to study the map.

John watched him. Sherlock’s entire back was tense, his arms stiff and his hands in his pockets. He looked like he could break on the spot. John rose and went to him. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock flinched, relaxed, and turned around. He stared at John, and John couldn’t read him. Sherlock’s eyes lacked their usual analytical light; and he was sober, completely clean. This was something new, something John couldn’t place.

Sherlock took John’s hand from his shoulder and let it go.

John felt his heart hammering its way into his throat. “Sherlock,” he said quietly.

“Please, John. Not now.” Sherlock turned away and picked up his violin. But he didn’t play, and in a moment he put it up and disappeared into his bedroom.

John watched the point where Sherlock’s back had disappeared around the corner. What had Mycroft said to him? What could possibly have Sherlock this agitated? He never liked when Mycroft came ever, rarely cared for what he had to say, but John had never seen Sherlock react so severely to his older brother. And John could only stand by and watch his miserable friend.

How does someone cheer up Sherlock Holmes? The unsentimental man.

The man who had bared what sentimentality he had to John, who gave it to John.

John sat down in his chair. He took off his shoes and leaned back, staring at the empty seat across from him. At that moment, in an inexplicable flash, John thought he might understand what Sherlock meant by “emotional attraction.” There was something about Sherlock, something in his personality that appealed to John. Something every woman he’d ever dated lacked. Something every person he’d ever met lacked. It was what made a part of John ache for his friend in those rare moments when Sherlock showed any sign of real despair.

It wasn’t the intellect, his science of deduction. At least not that by itself; Mycroft and Moriarty and, to an extent, Irene all had that same cleverness. John didn’t even know if he could name it, what Sherlock had that drew John in. It was everything he missed from Afghanistan, filtered through a sieve so the ugliness was caught and left behind. It was everything he loved about being a doctor, about being a doctor on the front line. Because Mycroft had been right two-and-a-half years ago: London was a battlefield, and the most accurate way to see it was through Sherlock. 

Even when the man was bored, standing with Sherlock was the best way to see the world: always interesting, always fascinating, always rediscovered. That had been torn from John, and he had been ready to go back to Afghanistan, to everything that was ugly, just to feel a drop of what his life was like when he walked the streets of London with Sherlock Holmes.

 

Almost an hour had passed when John pushed the door gently open. “Can I do anything?” His voice was quiet.

“No,” Sherlock said. He was sitting at the end of his bed, his head hung.

John swallowed hard. “Anything.”

Sherlock looked around at him, and his eye fell briefly to the square of plastic between John’s fingers. “John.”

“I can’t promise anything.” John slipped through the door and closed it behind him. “I can’t.” Was he really saying this? Was he really doing this?

“John, you don’t need to—”

“I know I don’t. And I can’t promise anything. I could end up at Harry’s for a month after this.” He tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat and sank to his stomach. John put the condom on the nightstand and pulled off his vest, and when his head was freed Sherlock was standing right in front of him, looking down at him. The skin on the back of John’s neck prickled.

Sherlock lowered his mouth to John’s ear and whispered, his voice faltering, his injured pride showing, “I’ve read up on the logistics, but I’ve never—”

John pressed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I gathered as much,” he said, his own voice unintentionally hushed.

Sherlock’s fingers slid across John’s shirtsleeves. He began unbuttoning John’s shirt. John started the same with Sherlock’s. They untucked their shirts and shrugged them to the floor, pulled off their undershirts and let them fall. John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face, but from the edge of his vision he saw his own dog tags hanging from Sherlock’s slender neck, dangling just between his pectorals. Sherlock undid his trousers and pushed both them and his pants down to the floor in one heap. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on John’s. Sherlock’s thumb brushed across the scar from Afghanistan. With his other hand he took John’s and put the first two fingers in his mouth.

As Sherlock began to suck John’s fingers, coating them in saliva, John’s body most definitely reacted. With his free hand he began to undo his trousers. Sherlock’s hand joined his and found its way under John’s pants. John twitched at the feel of those long narrow fingers. Those, for once, uncertain fingers. He took Sherlock’s hand and wrapped it around his cock, guided his motions. It took an embarrassingly short time for John to get hard.

John walked Sherlock backwards to the bed, where Sherlock relinquished John’s slippery fingers. “You have to relax,” John said. Sherlock nodded and turned onto his stomach. John ran his fingers between Sherlock’s cleft and carefully slipped one in. Sherlock twitched and tensed all over. “Relax,” John repeated. In a moment, Sherlock had calmed his body. John moved his finger inside Sherlock, stretching until he could fit his second finger in. Again Sherlock stiffened, and this time he breathed in sharply. John gently scissored Sherlock wider.

“John,” Sherlock sighed into his pillow.

John retracted his fingers. He tugged of his trousers and pants and kicked them to the floor. He open the plastic square, rolled the condom on, and pressed his cock against Sherlock, hesitant. “It might hurt at first,” he cautioned.

Sherlock breathed heavily. “I know.”

John pushed slowly into Sherlock, his body reveling in the warmth and every tremble and flex Sherlock’s body made around him. He bit his lower lip and slid in too fast. Sherlock shouted into his pillow. “I’m sorry,” John gasped.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, his body shaking. “It’s fine. Keep going. Please.”

So John held Sherlock’s hips and started rocking slowly in and out of him. Everything John felt in Sherlock’s body was reactionary; there were no carefully measured motions—the man didn’t know what to do with himself, with this. He hands were clenched into balls and he was just trying to breathe.

If hadn’t been so long for John, he probably would have had trouble climaxing. But his body was desperate, and Sherlock was hot and tight; John’s rhythm was quickly losing ground to more erratic thrusts. John studied Sherlock’s back, the place where his ribcage began to show, followed his spine to his neck where John’s tags hung. He leaned into his thrusts, and Sherlock writhed under him. John’s fingers brushed the chain, Sherlock’s neck.

John’s body convulsed. He released a half-choked groan, clenching his teeth as he came. As the last shudders started to dissipate, he started to pull out. But Sherlock was still taught. Without thinking, John bent over Sherlock’s back and took gentle hold of his cock. It only took a few pumps for Sherlock to moan into his pillow, gasp, and come onto the sheets.

John pulled out of Sherlock. “Whoa,” he said, taking Sherlock by the hips as the man almost collapsed onto the little pools of ejaculate. Sherlock rolled over to the other side of the bed and John slipped the sheet in a pile onto the floor. He took off the condom, twisted it, and dropped it onto the messed sheet before falling onto the bed.

It took him a moment to look over at Sherlock. The man he’d just fucked. The man—he’d just fucked a man. He’d just fucked Sherlock. His best friend. The man who now wore his dog tags, dangling haphazardly to one side of a narrow, heaving chest. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his nose flaring slightly as his lungs tried to fill up again.

They hadn’t even kissed. Just fucked.

John pushed himself up on one arm, and that’s when Sherlock said with a faint smile, “That was more effective than cocaine.”

John swung his legs around to hang off the side of the bed.

“What?” Sherlock said, sounding legitimately perplexed.

“Don’t,” John said. He took a deep breath. “Don’t compare me to your drug habits.” He took a dry corner of the dirtied sheet on the floor and wiped himself.

“I didn’t- I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. John closed his eyes. After a moment he felt Sherlock’s fingers on his spine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You’re rubbish at jokes,” John muttered.

Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s arm and gave him a slight tug. John lay back down and turned on his side facing Sherlock. He pushed himself up and leaned over the other man, bent down and kissed Sherlock’s salty lips. The touch was brief and chaste—ironic considering what they’d just done. Sherlock stared up into John’s eyes.

“What now?” Sherlock’s lips barely moved, and hardly any sound came from his mouth, but John felt Sherlock’s breath on his own lips.

John opened his mouth to say something, but a shiver distracted him. The cooling sweat was giving him goose bumps. He rolled over and found his pants in the pile of clothes, pulled them on and then his undershirt. He stepped lightly into the hallway and upstairs to his bedroom. He retrieved the blanket from his own bed, bundled it in his arms, and returned to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock hadn’t moved. His eyes were half-closed and he was drumming a slow tune on his stomach with his fingertips. John caught himself staring and his cheeks flushed slightly. He climbed back into bed, spreading the blanket over them both.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked almost surprised that John was back. “So, what now?”

John stared at Sherlock, at his collarbone, his neck, his cheekbones, his curls, his eyes. He just stared, long enough for Sherlock to say his name. John snaked his arm under Sherlock’s neck and pulled Sherlock’s head onto his chest. Sherlock was stiff with John’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, but after a moment of John’s easy breathing Sherlock relaxed into him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“Shh,” John replied, closing his eyes.

“Does this mean—”

“I said shut up,” John murmured. He allowed himself to smile as Sherlock moved ever so slightly closer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a few paragraphs added into Chapter 7, so please go back and reread before continuing. Thanks and love!
> 
> Also, there are probably only about two chapters left. Eep!

> August 4th
> 
> _I don’t completely understand it, but I don’t regret it. The first few times were rushed. Then we started to slow down, started to explore each other, learn each other’s bodies as we had learned each other’s minds over the last two years. He learns so quickly; there are times I struggle to keep up (as usual) with every new point of pleasure he discovers about my own body. (By my age, I thought I’d learned them all.) And his body—his genitals don’t turn me off. They don’t turn me on, but they also don’t turn me away. I get a strange pleasure out of making him, Sherlock Holmes, react so… viscerally._

John found Sherlock in the living room after two in the morning. Sherlock did this a lot after they had sex: once he came done from his high, he’d go out and stare at the map or the video tapes. Once in a while he would just play his violin, and a couple times John found him in his chair simply with his fingertips together and his eyes closed but most definitely awake.

Sherlock, sitting in his robe on the couch with the photos splayed out on the coffee table before him, glanced up when John walked in. He slid over and John, wrapped in a blanket, sat next to him. “You really think you’ll see something new in these?”

“I have nothing else to go on.”

John’s sleepy mind drifted, and he just stared blankly at the photographs of dead men and women. A memory squirmed its way up to the surface of his mind. “A few weeks ago, Mycroft sent a text. Something about there being ‘one way.’ I suppose he meant for flushing out Moran.”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply, cutting off John’s train of thought.

“What?”

“Mycroft’s idea isn’t viable.”

John tried stifling a yawn. “Why not?”

Sherlock wouldn’t say anything until John nudged him with his shoulder. “It puts people at risk.”

“People are at risk anyway, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a long breath through his nose. “No.”

“Won’t even tell me what it is?”

His friend—his partner looked at him, looked right into him. In a barely audible voice Sherlock said, “It puts you in danger.” And only John could have made out the fear in Sherlock’s voice, his eyes.

John reached up and drew Sherlock’s face to his. He kissed him and felt the slightest tremble in Sherlock’s lips. John leaned his forehead into Sherlock’s. “Tell me the plan.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’ll ask Mycroft.”

A sharp anger flashed across Sherlock’s entire countenance as he pulled away.

“I was a soldier, Sherlock. I’ve got a better chance of surviving than the next poor sods he decides to kill.”

“He’s a sniper, John,” Sherlock said through a clenched jaw. “This isn’t hand-to-hand combat.”

“We’ll figure something out. You, me, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly—we can figure something out. Just tell me the plan.”

It started with covering the city in propaganda-type flyers. _Jim Moriarty was real. Believe in Sherlock Holmes._ They’d use Sherlock’s old homeless network to paper the city. Quick sensationalism to get people talking, to get the news interested again.

Then something would come up, something that proved government files had been tampered with, something directly linked to “Richard Brook.” Scotland Yard would have to reopen the year-old case.

It was going to be slow, agonizingly slow, but nothing would link directly back to John, not right away, not any more than it inherently would. Eventually, though, there would be calls, invitations to talk on the news. Eventually, John would start accepting. Tell his side of the story.

People would start to doubt Brook and remember Moriarty.

The riskiest part was that 221 would need a 24/7 surveillance, and John would be followed by Lestrade or Mycroft’s people wherever he went in hopes of catching sight of Moran. More people would have to know Sherlock was still alive. More people would have to keep that vital secret.

And the entire thing rested on the slightest of possibilities that they could catch Moran before Moran killed John.

“Okay,” John said when Sherlock had finished laying it out. Sherlock looked at him, and John saw that a very small part of Sherlock had been holding illogically onto the hope that John would say no. But they both knew better. “We’ll call Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly over in the morning.” John stood and started for the hall. In the doorway he turned around. “Coming?”

“No,” Sherlock said, staring at the photos again.

“There’s nothing to do between now and the morning. Come back to bed.” But Sherlock shook his head. “Why not?”

“Because if I do it’s likely we’ll have sex.”

John smirked. “That’s a bad thing now, is it?”

“I need my head clear, John.”

“Sherlock.” John let the blanket peek open as Sherlock turned his head. “Come to bed.” And he couldn’t help but relish the mild flush that appeared in Sherlock’s cheeks.

In the bedroom, Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s, digging his tongue into John’s mouth, losing his usual grace until they surfaced, gasping. He hung his robe and the blanket on the back of the door and pressed himself against John, breathing in his hair. John rested his cheek on Sherlock’s chest, ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back.

“We don’t have to,” John said. “We can just do this.” But he had already started to get hard, and Sherlock smiled against his scalp and laughed. They lay down on the bed and clung to each other, covered each other in kisses and fingerprints.

For the first time, Sherlock went down on John; they’d only ever used hands before. John’s throat tightened and all the air went out of his lungs when he felt Sherlock’s lips on his cock. Sherlock pressed his lips around the head, tickling the skin with the tip of his tongue, gently sucked. John bit his bottom lip as he grew harder in Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock released John and leaned over him, dog tags dangling between them. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said breathily, “calling it a ‘blow’ job, does it?”

“Fucking shut up,” John said. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and half-lifted himself, half-pulled Sherlock into a deep kiss. John kept one hand at the base of Sherlock’s skull, fingers winding themselves into his dark locks. With his other hand, he reached down to fondle Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyelids became heavy as the chemicals in his body started to work at him. This was the best part to John, when all that cleverness was drowned in pure carnal pleasure. Those cold walls were gone, and it was John who brought them down.

John rolled them over and reached blindly for the drawer of the nightstand. He had to break away to see what he was doing, and as soon as he had Sherlock gave his cock a tug. “Christ, Sherlock,” John murmured. He closed his hand around the lube just as Sherlock pulled his face back down. John dropped the lube on the bed and climbed off of Sherlock.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock said.

“You’re… crying.” John thumbed away the tear that had fallen down the side of Sherlock’s face. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sherlock said. He took John’s hand and tried to pull him back down, but John resisted.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “John, please. It’s- Nothing’s wrong.” Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s wrist. “Please, don’t stop.”

“If I’m hurting you—”

“For god’s sake, John. You’re not hurting me.”

John leaned down and whispered, “Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.” Sherlock ran his fingers up John’s cock, and every centimeter of John’s skin shuddered. John clutched for the lube and Sherlock smiled into the kiss he gave John’s arm.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s waist. John leaned over and kissed the middle of Sherlock’s collarbone, sucked in the little dip of flesh as he inserted a lube-coated finger into Sherlock. Sherlock’s legs tensed momentarily around John. He ran his slender fingers down John’s ribcage, pressed his thumbs into the creases where thighs met pelvis, tugged John towards him. John slipped a second finger in, just as impatient, but he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock. He’d done that once, in the first week; they’d moved too frantically, too fast, and regretted it. So John forced himself to take his time, stretching Sherlock properly, all the while leaving little suction marks along Sherlock’s collarbone and shoulders.

Sherlock tightened his legs around John, drawing him closer. John looked him in the eye, and Sherlock said his name very quietly. Before John could act, Sherlock managed to completely flip their positions. He reached back to John’s cock and guided it into himself. John couldn’t catch his breath. He bent his knees up and raised himself into Sherlock. Sherlock choked out a groan. John bucked into Sherlock, making the other man lose his balance and fall forward with a louder moan.

John laughed and hugged Sherlock to him, pushed his hips into him, tasted his neck. He felt something wet drop onto his forehead. He looked up and saw tears in Sherlock’s eyes again. “Sher—”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock breathed. He curled himself over John, buried his face in John’s hair. “Don’t stop, John.” John pressed his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

When he knew he was close, John reached down to help Sherlock, but he found Sherlock’s hand already there. John closed his hand over Sherlock’s. Sherlock pressed his face harder into John’s scalp. Sherlock’s body tightened all over as he came, and John groaned into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shivered as he lifted himself off of John. John pressed the flat front of his teeth into Sherlock’s skin and came.

They were motionless except for their labored breathing, Sherlock leaning over John with his face still submerged in John’s hair. John pulled Sherlock down, ignoring the ejaculate between them. Sherlock’s face came to rest by John. John kissed him under the ear and whispered, “Why are you crying?” Sherlock started muttering about hormone levels and orgasms and John told him to shut up. “Don’t lie to me. You have to stop lying to me.”

“Don’t do it,” Sherlock said. His voice quaked. “He’ll kill you, John. Please, don’t do it.”

John opened his mouth to answer, but he changed his mind and instead just held Sherlock close until the high left Sherlock’s system.

  


> _And there’s the closeness, the psychological and emotional closeness, that comes before, during, and briefly after. While the hormones and pleasure-inducing chemicals in our heads still run high, they subdue that unreachable intellect of his. For a little while, we’re on the same level. And I realize, more than ever, what his intellect does for him: it’s a wall, a protective layer to keep the world out. Because, under that overwhelming mind of his, everything is, to him, new and unknown and dangerous._

  


Mycroft and Lestrade were the first to arrive, around midmorning, and they did so together. The Holmes brothers were unusually polite with one another, which is to say they only nodded in each other’s general direction and proceeded to ignore the other’s presence until necessary. Luckily, Molly was only a few minutes behind.

Sherlock left it to Mycroft to explain the plan. It was his plan after all, as Sherlock pointed out curtly before turning to face the curtained window so all anyone could see was his back. John casually offered his chair to Molly and moved to sit at the table, but Sherlock only shifted his position so his face was still hidden.

Mycroft explained the plan almost verbatim as Sherlock had to John last night. Under other circumstances, the irony would have struck John as humorous. When Mycroft finished, he sat back in Sherlock’s usual chair and awaited a reaction.

“I don’t like it,” Lestrade was the first to say.

“None of us does,” John said. He had hardly taken his eyes off Sherlock since Mycroft started speaking, but now John met Lestrade’s gaze.

Lestrade puffed out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. “I can maybe think of five officers—”

“I have a list,” Sherlock said. His voice was completely flat, and John almost winced at the sound. “And I think I can trust my brother to come up with a satisfactory list on his end.” Mycroft nodded, though Sherlock obviously couldn’t see him. “Molly, you haven’t said anything.”

Molly looked up from her lap where her hands were clasped tightly together. “What use am I?” She smiled her usual self-deprecating smile.

Sherlock turned around, but Mycroft, leaning forward, spoke first, “Miss Hooper, you will be vital to the success of this plan. Once the masses began to talk again, you will be called upon as much as Dr. Watson. Not only did you autopsy Sherlock, with whom you were known colleagues, but you had relations with Jim Moriarty that were of quite a different kind than everyone else.” Mycroft straightened up. “In fact, it’s very possible you might be called upon more than John, for both professional and personal reasons. You will need to put on as good a show as you have for the past year, and under more concentrated fire and limelight.”

The others in the room could hardly believe it; Mycroft was practically being downright nice. Molly nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

“I’ve got an appointment to keep.” Mycroft rose and collected his briefcase and umbrella. “Greg, I’ll be sending you a list of the agents your officers will be working with.”

As Mycroft descended the stairs, Molly checked her watch and jumped. “I’m going to be late.” She paused in her hurry and looked at Sherlock. “It’ll be nice when this is over.” Sherlock just nodded and she left.

“I have the list now, if you’d like,” Sherlock said to Lestrade and took his seat.

“Yeah, although I’ll need to write it—” Lestrade watched Sherlock pull a slip of paper from under a pile of notebooks and newspapers beside his chair. “—down. Right then.”

Sherlock handed Lestrade the list and recited the names from memory as Lestrade checked it over. Both Lestrade and John started when Sherlock came to the final name: “Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

“Are you mad?” John was up out of his chair without realizing it.

Lestrade was equally livid. “The only reason I haven’t had Donovan fired is because public evidence still has you in a bad light. As it is I exchanged her with Dimmock’s sergeant.”

“Peter Jones is your second in command?” Sherlock said mildly, ignoring Lestrade and John’s outrage. “I believe he’s on my list. And so’s Dimmock. So I’ll keep Donovan.”

“Why?” John said, flustered.

“She’s a good officer.”

“She helped you to your suicide.” It was taking all John’s will to keep from shouting.

Sherlock looked sharply at John and Lestrade. “Sally Donovan acted on what evidence was put before her in the best interest of British citizens. Do you really believe I’ll hold a grudge against her for that?”

It shut the other two up. John sat back down at the table. “Anderson wasn’t on there though, right?”

“God no,” Sherlock said, and he and John both grinned.

“Fine,” Lestrade said. “I’ll be in touch.”

After the DI had gone, John took his own chair again. “Donovan? Really?”

“She is good at her job.”

“Yeah, and I thought we were looking for trustworthy people. Why her?” John watched Sherlock pointedly remain silent. “Sherlock, I need to understand so I don’t punch her when she comes ‘round.”

“She came to my grave,” Sherlock said. “About an hour after you and Mrs. Hudson left.”

Several points flicked through John’s mind, and after a moment the one he was able to catch onto was, “You were there?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied under his breath. He didn’t look away from John’s gaze. To his surprise, John didn’t go any further.

“So Sally went to your grave?”

“Yes.” Sherlock stood and went to his violin. “Apologized quite a bit. I’m surprised Lestrade transferred her so easily.”

“No you’re not.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John. “No, I’m not.” John nodded for him to continue. Sherlock pointed his bow at the door. “I don’t believe Lestrade did the transferring; I would say Sergeant Donovan requested it, and Lestrade was more than happy to send her on her way.” He put the bow to his violin.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?” He frowned when John smiled.

“My dog tags.” He nodded to where they hung outside Sherlock’s shirt, where they had been hanging since he got dressed that morning, in plain view to the people who had just come through their flat.


	9. Chapter 9

> September 14th
> 
> _Credit should be given where credit is due, and it’s due to the force. I know I’ve had a detail for a month now, and I’ve hardly seen anyone despite knowing their faces ahead of time. (Sherlock’s pointed them out on every occasion, but that’s Sherlock.) Lestrade and Mycroft have been introducing their people a handful at a time. After they’re briefed, they’re brought around to Baker Street. It’s all been irregularly scheduled, but Moran’s had to have noticed by now. The last ones come through today, including Donovan. I know what Sherlock said is reasonable, but I’ve still got have a mind to chin her._

It was after tea when Mrs. Hudson let Sally Donovan into 221. John knew Sherlock had been involved with Scotland Yard for years before they met, and he was sure just about every officer who had met Sherlock disliked him—most of all Donovan and Anderson—but he didn’t think her reaction to Sherlock being alive was out of guilt, and that surprised him.

“So Greg wasn’t pulling my leg,” Donovan said as she looked Sherlock, who was lounging in his chair, up and down. “Tell me, Freak, when did you start wearing jewelry?”

The dog tags were under Sherlock’s shirt, but the chain was still just visible. He smirked. “Have a seat, Sally.”

John was at the table, so Sally took his armchair across from Sherlock. “What happened—”

“Did you do it out of spite?” Sherlock locked his fingers together in his lap.

“No,” Sally said without hesitating, without uncertainty or any signs of lying.

“Then let’s move on, shall we?”

The conversation didn’t last long, and it was all business until Sally got up to leave. She looked solidly at John and Sherlock both. “I am sorry,” she said. “I never wanted something like that to happen. When I heard—” She shook her head. “I am glad you’re alive, Freak.”

“It’s good to have you on our side, Sergeant Donovan.” She nodded to both of them before leaving. Sherlock stretched his arms in front of him. “Well that’s all taken care of.”

“She still calls you ‘freak,’” John murmured.

“Ignore it.” John opened his mouth, but Sherlock repeated himself. “For Sally Donovan, that’s about as close to a term of endearment as one gets.”

“But you hate when people call you that.”

“Most people don’t mean it kindly.”

“And she does?”

“As I said, coming from her it’s almost a pet name.” Sherlock laughed at John’s expression. “Jealous?”

“Not in the least.”

“Come here.”

John got up and walked over to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock beckoned him with this finger. John leaned forward with his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Mm, you are most definitely jealous.”

“Shut up,” John said. He kissed Sherlock and went to his own chair.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

John tossed it over and picked up his journal. After a minute of writing he looked up and saw Sherlock grinning at the phone. “Who’re you texting then?”

“No one,” Sherlock said instinctively. At once he gave John an almost apologetic look. “You wouldn’t care to know.”

“Sherlock.”

“Another dead soul,” he said with no attempt at hiding the facetious nature of his words. He tossed John the phone.

_In town?_

_Yes. Let’s have dinner._

John stared at the phone long enough for the screen to time out. “But she’s—”

“In a witness protection program in America? I know Mycroft made up that load of bollocks. Anyway, I was there when she ‘died.’”

“You went to Pakistan?”

“Yes.”

“What, overnight?”

“Just about.” The phone buzzed. John tossed it to Sherlock without looking, and Sherlock raised a curious brow. As he read and replied to Irene, John chuckled. “What’s funny?”

“Mycroft. He told me it’d take Sherlock Holmes to fool him.”

Sherlock grinned. “Well, he was right about something.”

“So she’s in London?” Sherlock nodded. “What for?”

“To lend a helping hand.”

John considered that for a moment. “He’ll know who she is.”

“Probably.” Sherlock looked up. “But it was her idea.”

“There’s a couple dozen officers and agents watching us, Sherlock. You really think it’s a good idea to put her in the middle of this?”

“I didn’t think you liked her.”

“I don’t, not particularly.” John shrugged. “But you clearly trust her, and I can count on one hand the people you trust.” He seemed to surprise Sherlock there. In the ensuing quiet John opened his journal again. “Might want to mention us, though. Don’t want her getting any ideas.” Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock laugh silently.

 

John didn’t see Irene Adler, but he knew she’d been around when he found lipstick on one of the glasses in the sink. He hated the knot his stomach made when he saw it. Even though for the last two months he and Sherlock had been sleeping together—figuratively and literally; John couldn’t remember the last time he slept in his own bed—he was jealous. And he berated himself endlessly.

“Ready to be Professor Watson?” Sherlock said as he walked into the kitchen. Term started the next day.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.”

Sherlock rested his chin on John’s head. “She says hello.”

“Who?” John turned away and headed for the living room.

Sherlock grabbed his sleeve. “You’re being irrational, John.”

John tugged his sleeve out of Sherlock’s fingers. “I know. But most of us don’t have on and off switches for our emotions.” He held up a hand as Sherlock reached for him again. “I know it’s stupid, but it’s just going to take some time for my heart to catch up to my head. This has only being going on for a couple months.”

“The sex, yes, but we’ve been friends for years now.” Sherlock snatched John’s hand despite protests. “I don’t let people in, John. You know that better than anyone. I let you in a long time ago.” Sherlock dragged John to him and wrapped his long arms around his partner.

John put his head against Sherlock’s chest. “You’re just doing this to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” John sighed and hugged him back. “Even if it is calculated.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not sincere.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. “But I do need to ask a favor.” John rolled his eyes and pulled back a little. “She needs a safe place to stay—”

“No, not here.” He hurried to add, “It’s too closely watched, by both sides.”

“I know, not here. But with someone we can trust. Molly.”

“Why can’t you ask her?”

“It should be done in person, shouldn’t it? With term starting there will be a lot more people around Bart’s.”

John eyed Sherlock a little warily. “I’m not sure if you’re actually being considerate, or just using me.”

“Both?”

John let his forehead fall against Sherlock’s chest. “At least you’re being honest.”

 

John went looking for Molly after he finished his first lecture. He found her in the mortuary, autopsying and chatting with one of the Yarders assigned to Bart’s. He was about to leave when Molly spotted him up in Observation and waved, so John went down.

“Peter Jones, isn’t it?” John offered his hand to the Yarder, who was dressed in civvies.

“That’s right. You’re Dr. Watson?”

“Professor Watson now,” Molly said with a smile. “John’s got a job teaching here. How did the lecture go?”

“Well enough for a first day I suppose. Sorry, Peter, but do you mind if I talk to Molly for a minute?” John smiled, politely if strained.

“Not at all. Have a good day, Miss Hooper. Dr. Watson.”

“Bye.” Molly gave an awkward wave.

Once the door to the mortuary closed, John grinned. “You fancy him.”

Molly blushed and turned back to her work. “He’s… nice. He’s actually one of the few police officers who appreciates what Sherlock’s done for them.”

“It’s good to have people on your side who actually like the person they’re watching out for, yeah.”

“Did you say you needed to talk about something?”

“Oh, right. I’ve got a favor to ask. Actually, it’s Sherlock’s favor; I’m just the messenger. And it’s a big favor.”

“Anything to help.”

John crossed his arms uncomfortably. “Did he ever mention a woman named Irene Adler?”

Molly’s hands stopped moving, but she didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Well, she’s back in London. She’s going to try and draw Moran out. But she needs a place to stay. It’s a lot,” John added. “I know.”

Molly chewed her lip for a moment. “What’s she like?”

John sighed. “Like a female Sherlock, with slightly less clever and a lot more experience with people. She used to work as a Dominatrix.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. She’s been sort of wandering for a while. She’s in the same position as Sherlock: everyone thinks she’s dead.”

Molly gave a weak smile. “I’m good with dead people.”

“If you don’t want to, if you can’t—”

“I’ll do it, it’s all right. She’s a friend of Sherlock’s.” Molly put aside her instruments. “Can I ask you a question, John?”

John blinked, a little surprised. “Of course.”

“When Sherlock was staying with me, before it was safe to go back to Baker Street, he was, well, he wasn’t quite himself. Actually, it was frightening at first. I thought,” Molly put her hands on the metal table, “I thought he’d gone mad.”

John felt some of the color drain from his face. “But he’s all right now, Molly.”

“I know, I know. He talked a lot those first few weeks. Sort of. He’d go silent for a while, and then he wouldn’t stop talking. I didn’t know what to do. But he talked about you a lot, John.” Molly took a deep breath. “He almost gave up on the whole scheme, more than once he came so close to it, because it really hurt him.”

“What did?” John knew, though. He didn’t know why he asked her.

“Seeing you like you were. I know he doesn’t show it, he’s his old self again, but he really cares for you, John.” Molly’s voice was pleading for John to believe her.

John circled the table and put a hand on Molly’s shoulder. She looked up at him and he smiled. “I know.”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t think you do. I mean he really cares for you. I know Sherlock isn’t really attracted to people—I spent long enough—I mean—”

“Molly,” John interrupted her broken thoughts. “I know.” She opened her mouth to protest. “Really, I know.” Molly closed her mouth.

“Oh, John. I’d hug you but,” she held up her gory gloved hands.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t just now. So are you sure about taking in Irene?” Molly nodded. “Molly Hooper, you are brilliant.” He kissed her forehead.

 

John had just picked up Chinese from around the corner when a long unheard, but still familiar voice called his name. Irene stood just a few paces behind him, looking unusual with her hair down, little makeup on, and in casual clothes.

“You’re going to get yourself caught,” John said in a hushed tone.

“Only if you keep looking so suspicious.” She put her arm through John’s and led him in the opposite direction of Baker Street. “Take a walk with me, love.”

“You do know I’m being watched, right?”

“How sweet. I didn’t think you cared about me.” She kissed John’s cheek.

John stopped and pried Irene from his arm. “I don’t. But Sherlock does.”

“That’s right. I heard you like men now.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Nope.”

Irene raised a brow. “Really? I think your boyfriend might beg to differ.”

“You said ‘men.’” John put up a finger.

Irene smirked. “You’re cheeky when you’re not insecure.”

“Good night, Irene.”

“Wait.” Irene put a hand on his forearm. “Do I have a place to stay?”

John leaned in close and whispered Molly’s name and address into Irene’s ear. As he stepped back, he said, “Don’t take her charity for granted. Don’t toy with her. And don’t you dare put her in harm’s way.” For a moment Irene looked like she would make one of her sly comments, but she must have changed her mind because she just nodded. John started to walk back to Baker Street, but turned around after two steps. “And,” he called after her.

Irene looked at John expectantly. “Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“You, too.” In a moment she had melted into the crowd. John could hardly be surprised; she didn’t get away with playing dead on luck alone.

John’s thoughts about Irene dissolved as soon as he saw the police car outside 221. If it wasn’t for the fact that this whole surveillance thing was supposed to be undercover, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Instead he dropped the bag of food inside the doorway and ran up the stairs.

The only people in 221b were Mrs. Hudson and a constable from the yard. “Something wrong, Mrs. Hudson?”

“We got a call about a gunshot from this area,” the constable said.

“Really? You don’t think it could be that sniper that’s been in the news, do you?”

“Not sure, sir. That’s why we’re looking into it. Do you own a gun, sir?”

“Yes, just a handgun. From my time in Afghanistan,” he added pointedly.

“Mind if I have a look at it?”

“Not at all, officer.” John motioned over his shoulder to the stairs. “It’s just upstairs.” The constable nodded and John forced himself to take the steps at a steady pace.

Sherlock was hiding out in John’s bedroom, and once John closed the door he let out a giant breath.

He mouthed to Sherlock, “Was it you?” Sherlock shook his head. That was both good and bad news.

John took his gun from his coat and went looking for the old box he never kept it in. Sherlock watched him hawk-like and silent the entire time. When John finally dug the box out from under his bed, he rose to find Sherlock standing right behind him. Sherlock leaned in and inhaled deeply.

“Now’s really not the time,” John said between his teeth.

“You saw Irene,” Sherlock whispered.

“Oh, yeah. Can we talk when there isn’t a policeman in our living room?” John took out the magazine and put his gun in the box. He snapped it shut and brought it back down to the constable.

The constable inspected it without picking it up. “You keep it clean.”

“I may not use it, but I still treat it right. All respect,” John said, risking a slight defensive tone, “war never really leaves a man.”

The constable quirked a smile and nodded. “Fair enough, sir. Let us know if you hear anything. Thank you for your time.”

“Good luck,” John called after him. As soon as the door closed John went to the window and watched the police car drive away.

“I didn’t hear any gunshot,” Mrs. Hudson said when John turned around.

Sherlock emerged from the stairwell. “Nor did I.”

“Moran?” John suggested.

“Possibly.” He rubbed his hands together. “Dinner, then?”


	10. Chapter 10

> October 29th
> 
> _I’ve been called up for three exclusive interviews in the last week. Molly’s had calls for two. Even Mrs. Hudson was invited to talk about “The Real Sherlock Holmes.” People point and whisper at 221 and anyone who comes and goes. I didn’t expect it to turn over so quickly, especially not when an entire year’s past. People like a good story, though. They like the tragic hero. To hell with them; I just want to live my life again, with Sherlock living it beside me. Not dead. Not a ghost. He, at least, seems to be taking it all in stride. He’s anxious, but so are we all._

It was quarter to three in the morning when John’s phone rang. He rolled over out of Sherlock’s arms and blinked until he could read the screen clearly. Molly.

John didn’t even have a chance to utter a greeting. He heard Molly’s broken cries on the other end and swung his feet onto the floor. “Molly, what’s wrong? Breathe. I need you to breathe.” Behind him Sherlock sat up in the bed.

“Oh god, John. It’s her. Oh god, oh god. John, oh god, she’s dead. John, she’s- Oh god.”

He felt sick as his entire body went rigid. “Have you phoned Lestrade?”

“I didn’t know, John. I didn’t know if I should. John—”

“I’ll take care of it.” John squeezed the phone between his ear and shoulder and started scrambling for yesterday’s clothes. “Molly, I need you to breathe. Where’s the- Where is she?”

“My bedroom.” She choked on every syllable.

“I need you to go inside—stay away from the windows—and lock yourself in your bathroom. I’ll be there fast as I can.” He looked over his shoulder and met Sherlock’s gaze. It was watchful, analyzing, but John knew Sherlock had figured it out. Somewhere, under the surface, he would be simmering. “Sherlock’s going to go down and get Mrs. Hudson’s phone. He’ll stay on with you, all right? I’m leaving now, Molly.”

She managed something like a thank you and John hung up. He pulled on his jumper and buttoned his trousers. Sherlock started to dress.

“You’re not coming,” John said. “There’ll be police all over the place.”

Sherlock just gazed at him as he buttoned his shirt. John phoned Lestrade and strode out the door.

 

The police were already swarming when John arrived. Molly was sitting on the back of an ambulance with a blanket around her shoulders and an officer hovering doing her best to comfort the wreck. John sought out Lestrade first.

“Was it him?” John whispered.

“Clean shot. Not far, either. From there I’d say.” Lestrade pointed to the third story of a building across the street. “But it gets worse.” He led him past the police tape and into the apartment. Everything was completely ordinary between the front door and the bedroom; John wondered how long Molly had been home before finding Irene.

The bedroom was spotless. More spotless than it should have been. Irene’s body was gone, but Lestrade described how Moran had come in, stripped her, and positioned her seductively on the bed like she was just waiting for whoever came through the door next.

“Did you find her phone?”

“Yeah, we’ve got it—”

“I’ll need it,” John said. He couldn’t say Sherlock would need it, not with uniformed officers hovering about the whole place.

“It’s evidence, John,” Lestrade said, but unwilling to put up a fight.

“She isn’t even technically supposed to be alive.”

Lestrade sighed. “Hang on.”

They went back out and John made his way over to Molly. He took over from the policewoman and wrapped his arms around Molly’s shoulder. “I am so, so sorry, Molly.” Her eyes were read and her face puffy, but she was no longer crying.

Molly looked up past John’s arms and he turned to see Peter Jones dodging the police tape and coming towards them. He was clearly off duty, officially and unofficially. John stepped away as Peter and Molly hugged. “Jesus, Molly. Are you all right?” Molly assured him she was and John left them alone.

Lestrade found him again and slipped Irene’s phone into John’s hand. “If I learn anything else, I’ll call you.”

John took the cue to get out. He looked once more over to Molly, but she was occupied with Peter’s affections. John felt a brief sense of relief that she had someone to look after her; then he went right back to hating that this had happened to her at all.

In the cab ride back to Baker Street, John took out Irene’s phone. He expected it to be locked, but instead it brought him straight to an open text message. It was long and written entirely in Morse code. Irene had been at the end of the text message, and the last four words made every hair on John’s body stand on end. _Come play Johnny boy._

John copied the text and sent it to his own phone. He erased it from Irene’s and pocketed it. He started going through the code from his own phone, mentally translating the message. Except for those last words, it contained almost entirely numbers: eight digits, _N_ , eight digits, _W_. Sherlock would figure it out.

Except it was obviously intended for John. What would Moran send to John? What kind of code would John be able to figure out without asking Sherlock?

 

Dimmock and Sally were at Baker Street in their civvies when John returned. They looked as unruly awakened as the rest of them. Mrs. Hudson had the kettle going downstairs. Sherlock was obviously in mid-pace when John came in. He held out his hand and John pressed Irene’s phone into it.

“It’s not locked,” Sherlock commented. He looked up at the detectives. “Out.”

“You know we can’t leave,” Dimmock said. “Not until we get the all clear.”

“Which could be a while,” Sally yawned.

“At least go downstairs,” John urged them.

“What for?” Dimmock said.

But Sally put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s take Mrs. Hudson up on her offer for a cup, yeah?”

Sherlock perched himself in his chair as he went through the phone’s contents. John mentioned taking a shower and quietly slid out of the room. He ran the numbers repeatedly through his head, but he wasn’t Sherlock; they were still the same numbers.

What kind of message could John understand from Moran? Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty’s right-hand man. A murderer.

A sniper.

A former colonel.

John rinsed off as fast as he could. He put on his robe and went as quietly as possible into the living room. Sherlock was completely focused, though the phone rested in his hands with the screen off. John slipped his laptop off the table and carried it back to the bedroom.

He opened up a map of London and plugged in the numbers, each with an added decimal. The map zoomed in: Brixton Road. Specifically, Lauriston Gardens. Their first case together. The first case Jim Moriarty had been behind.

John snapped his laptop shut and dressed. On his way out he told Dimmock to tell Sherlock he’d gone to check on Molly; she was probably staying at Peter Jones’. By the time John was in a cab en route, dawn was well underway.

 

John’s phone rang as soon as the cab drove away, leaving him stranded before the empty houses of Lauriston Gardens. He answered the blocked number. For a moment he couldn’t hear anything; slowly he could make out steady breathing.

“Sebastian Moran,” John said. He glanced up at the houses, all of which were dark.

“Dr. Watson, at last we meet.” The voice on the other side wasn’t old or young, but it was weathered. Measured and steady. It belonged to a man who had seen war and who had come through standing taller than he had going in. It was a voice that made John feel cold.

John kept his voice calm, “I hardly call this meeting.”

“Did the dead man like his gift?”

“Loved it,” John said, his jaw tight. He started towards the house where the woman in pink had died.

“No, I think you should stay outside.” A red dot appeared on the door just as John reached for the knob. It lowered before disappearing behind his head.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

“Eager to die?”

“Sure, yeah.” John turned back down the path to the street curb. “Kill me, get your paycheck, disappear. Game, set, match.”

Moran laughed. “Paycheck? You think Jim’s going to pay me from beyond the grave?”

“You tell me.” John sat down on the curb.

“This isn’t about money, Dr. Watson.”

“Then what is it about?” He watched the red dot reappear about a meter in front of him and slowly crawl towards him.

“You should know, more than any of them. Take the man out of the war, but the war stays with him.”

John’s fingers clenched involuntarily. “So you resort to killing people. Just to get your kicks?”

“It’s not about the laugh; it’s about keeping sane.”

“This is sane, is it?” The dot crept onto John’s shoe. He could tell from the slight angle it wasn’t coming from straight ahead, but he kept his head down and his eye on the dot.

“Jim Moriarty gave me something to do, and now he’d dead.” There was hint of anger in Moran’s voice.

“Shot himself, the poor bastard. Suicide really isn’t good for one’s health.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Moran said. The anger had dissolved. “It won’t lessen my aim.”

“So what are you going to do after I’m dead?”

“Plenty of work out there for someone of my talents.”

The dot was on his kneecap and began making its way towards John’s torso. “Course there is.”

“But time’s up.” Police cars turned onto the street. “If there is a Hell, tell Jim I say hello.”

The phone went dead just as John stood and twisted around towards the building he thought Moran was in. There was no silencer on the gun, and the police cars screeched to a stop when the shot echoed against the houses. For the second time in John’s life, a bullet ripped into his flesh and seared his nerves red hot.

John collapsed. His head rang with the collision against the ground. He could hear his name among a throng of voices. A shadow passed over his vision and suddenly there were hands on him, on his face, on his head. Hands he knew.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice constricted in his throat. He leaned over John’s face, and John could just make out his eyes.

“I’m still alive,” John murmured. Somewhere far off, very far off, there were more gunshots.

“Of course you are, you idiot.” Sherlock slipped off his scarf and pressed it against John’s torso, just under his right ribcage. John shouted and Sherlock grabbed his hand.

John breathed in sharp and coughed. There was blood on his lips. “Rubbish shot, Moran is.”

“I saw the whole thing. You timed it perfectly. It was brilliant, John.”

“I didn’t time anything,” John said. He couldn’t make his hand close around Sherlock’s.

“Just hold on until the ambulance arrived. Lestrade’s already called it.”

“Don’t think I’ll make it to the ambulance.” There was still a lot of shouting, and John’s head hurt. He wanted to tell the lot of them to shut up. “Didn’t think I’d make it this long.”

“But you made him miss.”

John grinned. “You call this a miss?”

“He missed the headshot, John. You can survive this.”

“I didn’t mean for him to miss.” Sirens echoed up Brixton.

Sherlock tightened his hand around John’s. “Don’t be stupid.”

“He wasn’t… supposed… to miss.” The world started to swim and John closed his eyes.

“Don’t close your eyes. John, look at me. John Hamish Watson, damn it, look at me.” Sherlock squeezed his hand harder, but John didn’t blink. Paramedics converged on John. Sherlock practically ripped the dog tags from his neck and shoved them into a paramedic’s hands. “They’re his,” he said, eyes flashing, at the paramedic’s annoyance. “They’re his.” The paramedic nodded and pocketed the tags.

> _The London Times_
> 
> SNIPER MURDERER TAKEN DOWN AT LAURISTON GARDENS—29 October
> 
> BRIXTON HERO DR. JOHN H. WATSON STILL IN CRITICAL CONDITION AT BART’S—30 October
> 
> SHERLOCK HOLMES BACK FROM THE DEAD—31 October
> 
> DR. WATSON FALLS INTO COMA—1 November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait for it...


	11. Epilogue

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  23rd December  
>  Untitled  
>  My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am writing this entry on behalf of my friend John. The papers are an often unreliable, and always limited source of information.

The light was painful, and John threw an arm over his eyes. He heard Sherlock give a quick apology and the lights went off.

“No, turn them on. Can’t have everyone in the dark.” So the room lit up again, and John squinted. “They’re here?”

“Just waiting for you.” Sherlock helped John move precariously from the bed to the wheelchair. It was a clumsy ballet they had barely improved upon in the four weeks since John had been released from the hospital. John still winced every time he settled into the wheelchair.

“Thanks for letting me sleep a little more,” John said as he readjusted his slightly twisted jumper. Sherlock unlocked the brake and pushed the chair through the hall into the living room.

Every head turned to John at once. Molly rose from John’s chair and went over to peck him on the cheek. “You look like you’re doing well.”

“You look like hell.” Lestrade stood in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Thanks, Greg,” John said. He kissed Molly’s hand. “Thank you, Molly. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, John.” She returned to her chair and Peter who leaned on the arm. He nodded to John.

“Someone give the man a drink,” Lestrade said. “Looks like he needs one.”

“No alcohol,” Sherlock said firmly.

“All right,” John interrupted the two before they could start. “It’s Christmas, so shut up and make merry.”

“Can I get you anything, love?” Mrs. Hudson offered.

He asked for water and while she went to fill a glass Sherlock retrieved his violin. “Requests?”

Peter nudged Molly. “Is he any good?”

“He's brilliant,” Molly said.

“Molly knows my repertoire as well as John,” Sherlock said. “Molly?”

“How about ‘I Saw Three Ships’?”

Mrs. Hudson returned with John’s glass just as Sherlock put his bow to strings. In seconds 221b was so very alive with music. John’s gaze drifted from Sherlock to the frost-edged window as the melody filled him.

 

Sherlock woke John with a gentle shake of his shoulder. John had moved from his chair to the couch about halfway through the evening, and some time later drifted off. Sherlock lifted John’s head to sit down.

“That’s embarrassing,” John yawned when he saw the dimly lit, empty flat.

“They understand.” Sherlock ran his fingers lightly through John’s hair.

John closed his eyes contentedly at the touch. “What time is it?”

“Half past eleven.”

“I don’t think I can make it to Christmas,” John chuckled.

“Bed, then.” Sherlock slipped out from under John’s head and slid his arms under John.

“You are not carrying me,” John said, pushing his hand against Sherlock.

Sherlock’s brow quirked into an arch. “You’re hardly in a position to struggle. Might reopen something.”

John doubted it, but it would hurt like hell if he tried physically putting off Sherlock. “Sherlock, no.” But Sherlock lifted him off the couch. John’s face flushed and he pressed his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, grumbling a few select swears. “If you drop me—”

“I would never drop you. Not by accident at least.” John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock deposited John carefully onto the bed. “Don’t ever do that again,” John growled.

“Never,” Sherlock said, completely insincere, and kissed John.

Sherlock helped John undress. Clothes were still always painful affair, and every time John made the slightest of winces a flash of guilt passed across Sherlock’s face. Sherlock silently insisted on doing everything, though, all the way through covering them with the duvet. John could manage most of it on his own by now, though he was incredibly sore afterwards, but if Sherlock was around John could hardly use the toilet by himself. He didn’t have the energy or the heart to tease Sherlock about it, at least not yet. So all John did was lift his head when Sherlock went to push his arm under it and rested it back down on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock whispered a happy Christmas into John’s hair, and John vaguely remembered murmuring something back before falling asleep to the rhythm of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.
> 
> I'd apologize for the fluff, except otherwise it'd have ended with Chapter 10 and without that last headline.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed!


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